Don't Look at Me

A family history of laughing in church

Author’s note: This column was written just days before my mother, Patricia L. Welshofer, died on September 7, 2024. She spent the last few days of her life in the care of Suzanne’s Comfort Care Home in Perry, NY.

Our family cannot thank the staff and volunteers enough for their compassionate care of not only our mom, but of all of us as well.

This week, in honor and memory of my mom, I am including a link to the Suzanne’s Comfort Care website and specifically their donation page. I am hoping to give back to them so that they may continue the good work they do.

Thank you.

Kate

Suzanne's Comfort Care Home Inc.

Now to this week’s column:

Thinking about it recently, I don’t remember too many times when my entire family sat together in church. It’s not because we didn’t go (Lord knows.) We dutifully attended every week: Saturday night, the early show — Catholics. And every week, my mother played the organ and sang for mass, which meant we had the opportunity to tuck ourselves up in the choir loft with her — peering down at the parishioners below, getting a birds-eye view of the body of Christ.

This setup gave us the opportunity to spread out rather than being neatly packed, shoulder-to-shoulder in a pew. We all had our favorite spots to sit.

There were times, though, when our whole family (my parents, two sisters and me) did sit together, all in a row — like when we visited a church in another city or when we were all home for various holidays after my mom decided to put the pipe organ in the rearview and retire from her weekly gig. These occasions are memorable for me — not just because they were rare —  but because they almost always ended with, at the very least, three quarters of the family laughing so hard — silently, of course — that they were crying,

If you are in a serious situation of any variety and something happens that could be considered even mildly amusing — I am the last person you want in the room with you, forget sitting next to you. Instead, I am the person hissing through my teeth, “Don't look at me,” my entire upper body shaking, trying to stifle the laughter. The rest of my family is the same way.

The one and only professional family photo we ever had taken, everyone barely holding it together.

There was the time my sister leaned over and asked if there was a “two drink minimum” during one singer’s performance; the time I got caught off guard not only by live nativity players strolling down the aisle at the end of mass, but my mother whispering, “oh, for God’s sake, we get it.” 

Then, there was the time we visited a church for mass during the summertime. We walked in to hear some ladies reciting the rosary and quietly found our seats, genuflected and kneeled. Surveying the church, I noted a few other people dotted throughout and realized the voice I heard was coming from a woman kneeling up front. As she wrapped up the Our Father she turned, looked to the back and yelled, “TAKE IT MARGARET!” And on they continued with the Hail Mary.

In unison, our heads went down, our shoulders began to shake, tears formed and I’m not sure we ever truly recovered.

In later years, my mother used to joke that, at one point, she could separate us — my sisters and me, she meant — but now there was no hope. Every combination was trouble.

“Especially if you sit next to your father,” she teased.

There are so many times in life when things are just not funny, the seriousness of the moments sitting heavy, like a weight on our backs; the expectations of reverence solidly placed in our arms to carry.

And then a shoe squeaks, a cushion lets out a gentle sound of a fart, you’re busy crying when a perfect bubble pushes straight out of your nose. Without fail, the laughter rushes out, followed by a quick apology and a valiant, but usually futile, effort to regain any sense of composure.

Levity, in all its forms, softens our sullen faces, calls out in the darkness, lets in a bit of light. We’re never going to think laughing is appropriate for serious situations, but if you ask me — God knows we need it.

This column originally appeared in the September 12, 2024 edition of the Perry Herald in Perry, NY