Mr. Corvette

I think I have solved a mystery which has been plaguing me for a few years.

I guess it’s about four year’s ago that, when I was working in Calgary and had a schedule that allowed it, I would go to noon mass at Sacred Heart downtown.

There were always the same mix of people - old ladies who bustled around saying hi to each other, old men who fought over who was going to read the entrance psalm, and crazy religious freaks strung with about 3 dozen medals and crosses who hand out pamphlets about how evil Jews are.

I mean, come on.

Then there was me (utterly normal; not freakish at all). And waaayyyy up at the front, this Man.

I didn’t really pay attention to anyone the first few months, other than to shoot people into their various categories, until one day I was surprisingly early for mass, and pulled into the parking lot at the same as the Man did.

His car. Good grief, his car.

Yes. Yes it is a Corvette.

Anyway, all of a sudden I went...HOLD UP, MARY WOODARD....this situation might deserve some investigating.

Because usually (there are wonderful exceptions - I do know this), as bad as it sounds, when a guy goes to church everyday, it’s because he is a little bit crazy fanatical, and has possibly replaced any semblance of masculinity with the ability to quote papal encyclicals at the drop of a hat. Not that there is anything wrong with papal encyclicals - masculinity and theology should most definitely not be mutually exclusive. But for some reason, a lot of times, for a lot of men....they are.

Let me describe this man in broad strokes: he goes to mass every day and from there proceeds to tie rosaries around his wrists, and carries around the liturgy of the hours, and talks about liturgical abuses until you want to kick them in the head. He really doesn’t have any social graces, he is usually extremely judgemental of any female who wears less than a floor length skirt and a turtle neck, or has a spark of independence, and unless a woman professes to ardently desire at lease one dozen children in eleven years or less, she is definitely not worth any of his time.

In short, ew.

So, Mr. Corvette’s car balanced out the fact that he was at church everyday and whispered that he might actually be more, shall I say, normal - not in a mainstream way, but in a “he pursues a few things that most men like, and maybe he isn’t totally weird” type of way.

Then, my attention caught, I noticed that he had ink black hair, tanned skin, and stunning - I mean stunning - blue eyes. And that we was very reverent during mass, and always stayed after to pray for a little bit.

My brain short circuited. 

So, I admired from afar, all the while trying to puzzle out one thing (Yes, during the homily. And possibly during the readings. And also maybe during the profession of faith. SHAME).

Which brings me full circle to the beginning of this post. I kept wondering what type of background he has, because he is NOT your normal white-bred boy.

Well, now I know. Yesterday, at divine liturgy in Charokopio, Greece, I saw someone who could have been his brother.

I will stop eating chocolate if Mr. Corvette doesn’t have some Greek blood in him.

Mystery: Solved. I can now go back to paying attention in Church.