I always attend Mass while on vacation, and recall a number of churches from the places I visit repeatedly.
I live in Pennsylvania, but a few years ago I was vacationing in southern California. I had planned to attend Sunday Mass in North Hollywood, where I was staying, before driving up the coast. I recalled some good sermons at that church. But I couldn’t find the church in the neighborhood where I thought it was.
No problem, I thought, I’ll attend the Church of the Good Shepherd in Beverly Hills. I recalled some excellent lectors and cantors in that parish. But my mind was clouded, and I drove down Sunset Boulevard, instead of Santa Monica Blvd., and left Beverly Hills before I realized my mistake. (And there’s no place to make a u-turn on Sunset, once you leave BH.)
No problem, I thought, I’ll attend the Church of St. Martin in Brentwood. This was about a year after Nicole Simpson was murdered, and it was her parish, so I thought I’d say an extra prayer for her. I arrived just as Mass was starting.
Normally I sit towards the front, but the church was jam packed, and the only room was in the last pew, so that’s where I went. As Mass started, I noticed, from the corner of my eye, an old man entered the pew at the other end, but I was focused on the altar, so I didn’t give him a second thought.
When it came time for the Kiss of Peace, I moved to shake his hand . . . and recognised him as an old friend, who lived in Santa Monica. He had missed his preferred Mass, so he went “down the road” rather than waiting for the next Mass in St. Monica’s.
We hadn’t seen each other in years, so we had a nice chat afterwards, and I was certainly glad I was persistent in trying to find a church that day.