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May 21, 2008
I was born a Catholic. I will die a Catholic. In between is living a life. Living a good life requires a set of principles. My dad and mom saw to that. The good priests and nuns of St. Benedict’s and Mount St. Scholastica on the bluffs of the river town of Atchison (KS) provided the guidelines and inspirations.
The Wyatt Family of St. Ann’s Catholic parish consisted of six girls and three boys. All of the Wyatt “kids” attended St. Ann’s Grade School beginning with Mildred and Alice in 1910. Jeanette was the last to graduate in 1935. Mom was kicked by a horse late in her pregnancy and lost her first boy, Edward Earl. He is buried in the northeastern corner of St Ann’s Catholic cemetery EffinghamKS.
Now that St Ann’s Church building is gone, I remember what great values I received from that man-made stack of red bricks pointing skyward toward Heaven now a burned out hull. How could I miss having a great life? Why do I not fear death? I am all-clear now for take off. But my landmark is gone.
The question comes, WHY? I think God did that. God sends the fire and the wind to stir us up and to appreciate His plan of salvation. Fire cleans things up. Makes us look to the future and pay more attention to our Maker. New green grass come following a prairie fire…a new platform.
If you want to continue the good life you will have to rethink, and rebuild your gifts. New generations will pay closer attention to how they build. The new church will be theirs. They will appreciate what God set before them.
The people will get a new spirit ---one they can see and feel every time they go to “church”. If you don’t take religion serious, you may be part of a fire. Better learn before the alarm goes off. Some get better examples than others. God has a way.
My oldest sister, Mildred, and Leo. F. Sullivan were married by Fr. Leander Scherer OSB about 1925 in St. Ann’s.
I remember Fr. Matthew Hall, the “Friar Tuck” of his day and Sr. Aurillia, principal of St. Ann’s Grade School. I remember Fr. Cosmos Schneider, OSB. He sent me down to Mike Meaders’s Saloon to buy his cigars. Gad! He reeked of cigar smoke and his teeth were discolored from sucking on wet butts. I remember sweet Sr. Rose and the little Mexican “Senorita Cookie” who was the house keeper for the teachers when I was in Grade School 1926-1934. My mother, “Maggie” Scott-Wyatt was president of St. Ann’s Altar Society for many years and helped prepare the popular church dinners that our parish became famous for in the 1930s.
I walked the mile to serve at Mass a lot of summer vacation times. I had to memorize the Latin prayers for Mass in those days (1928-1934.) I think that helped me become a code operator attached to General D. McArthur’s HQS during WWII in the South Pacific.
The greatest thing about “serving at Mass” in those days was the fact that the altar proper was hallowed ground that separated the altar area from the congregation. A pretty white marble Communion rail ran clear across the front of the church. In the center was a bat-wing type marble gates that in effect separated the people from that special enclave for the priest and servers only. When I made my First Communion I got to kneel at those “pearly gates”.
As a server I got to be in that special altar place, like being on stage at a high school play. During “40 Hours devotions” we servers used to fight to be the one swinging the incense pot while facing the congregation. It took forever to get a bed of coals going at just the right time to make the biggest plume of smoke from that thing. (I loved the old time Latin Mass).
I loved the stain glass windows and my first set of the Stations of the Cross. I thought I was chosen by God to be the one to crank the bellows of the old organ for Sr. Rose and could beat the others up to the choir loft any day. One thing about the old church was it always smelled like a church should.
When I made my First Communion in 1928 the Confessional was a scary place. There was a lot of apprehension and eerie feeling about closing that dark door and reciting my sins. That feeling is still there after all these years though not as frequent.
One thing I took away from St Ann’s parish church was a firm belief in the sacrament of the Eucharist. One weekday Mass when I was the only server the priest handed me a little box containing some Hosts and told me
to eat them . “They’re just bread” he told me. He told me to eat them all right there. I was about 12 years old and the only server that day.
Many years later while at Mass in our new church in Tempe,Arizona I remembered that incident at St. Ann’s sacristy when I saw 4 or 5 Hosts blown off a little dish and left lying on the floor near the tabernacle. After Mass I went to the altar and picked up those hosts and ate them.
I recalled the hosts I had eaten nearly 50 years before. The impact of what I had done back at St. Ann’s came into focus.
The hosts in the Tabernacle and the hosts in the little box looked the same and tasted the same, The difference in them was: Christ’s body and blood was incarnated* into the host in the tabernacle by the words of the priest. The hosts in the little box were not consecrated. (They were just gifts). The mystery of our faith was in the tabernacle. It was just plain bread in the box of hosts I ate. What an example!
The fire at St. Ann’s Catholic Church has burned a hole in my heart that no other church can replace. For that I am blessed. It is another manifestation of an Almighty God who expects us to be able to see what He is doing while keeping the landing field open and the church alive.
*Incarnation ---is the union of divinity with humanity in Jesus Christ.
Ray Wyatt
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