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Paul MarianiDecember 23, 2024

For my dear son, Fr. Paul, S.J.

Advent 1952. Twelve years old, 
and I’m pedaling my bike over the rainswept
playgrounds and back streets of Levittown 
four miles north to the World War Two
 
aircraft hangar, recently converted into 
St. Bernard’s Catholic Church, with its black 
doors, white clapboard sides, glass windows 
and those old-fashioned altar railings.
 
Father stands with his biretta to my right 
as I kneel there in my white alb and black 
cassock and begin reciting from the ancient 
psalm in Latin, back and forth with Father.  

Introíbo ad altáre Dei, he intones. 
I will go up to the altar of God. And I follow, 
not understanding the depth of those words, 
not then, but reciting them even so, 

as others have for centuries before. 
Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem 
meam. To God, who gives joy to my youth.

Say it! Say it now at eighty-four,

as you did those years ago. Only clearer,
with more joy, words that keep the heart 
young and ever-hopeful, even as you near 
the end of your journey. And now, 
                                                                                         
even as you keep forgetting where you put 
your keys or credit card or hearing aids,
remember this. Is it the end, or is it really 
the beginning, as you half wobble to the altar,
 
where a priest, not even born back then, offers you 
the Host, Christ’s Body, and you take Him 
into yourself as He takes you into Himself, Ad Deum 
qui laetificat.
Yes, the joy of your youth. Then, and now. 

More: Advent / Poetry

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