Sacerdote

This morning Monica was remembering  her grandmother's funeral. It was 2014 and her grandmother was 99 when she died. An amazing woman who never failed to offer me food and drink when I visited or to engage me in conversation and ask about my family. She was the matriarch of a clan that ranged from gracious and friendly to borderline dysfunctional. In other words, pretty much normal.

The coffin was placed in the living room that morning, as is the tradition, and the house was full of relatives and neighbors gathering to pray and comfort each other before the coffin was moved to the templo (Iglesia, church) for the Misa (Funeral mass).

I remember two of our goddaughters were holding hands and dancing innocently near the coffin, unaware of the solemnity of the moment. Their faces were portraits of anticipation and wonder. 

As Monica related the memory, I noticed she had a smile on her face. She then recounted the moment I arrived at the house that day. Evidently one of the distant relatives, who didn't know who I was, announced as I entered, "That must be the sacerdote." (Priest). 

I'm going to out on a limb and say that's the first and only time in my life that I've been mistaken for clergy. However, it might look good on my celestial curriculum vitae.