“How was your Christmas?”

Whenever someone poses me this query, it’s a sure bet they (a) don’t know I’m a church musician, and (b) don’t want the true answer.  This well-meaning individual wants to hear me spin a lovely Dickensian saga about home-cooked meals; a gaily decorated tree; lovingly exchanged, artfully wrapped presents; and perhaps a single, pleasant hour-long Mass enjoyed from the vantage point of a civilian in the pews.

But this tableau is NOT my reality as a dual-church musician! The Christmas vigil and Christmas Day marathon schedule of Masses this year was grueling (five liturgies in 16 hours), joyful (unique seasonal psalms and carols), emotional (Christ is born!), and vocally demanding (a cold with laryngitis chaser plagued my vocal cords). Add to these facts that I commuted between two parishes to worship, and you had the recipe for exhaustion and some decidedly non-liturgical commentary about fellow drivers on the roads of Central Jersey. 

Yes, I wrote “two parishes”: one is a small inner-city, ethnically-diverse parish with a single priest in residence; the other a large suburban, multi-priest parish with a more homogenous congregation.

Why two churches?  Well, “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous” taught us that the worldly wealthy often have two homes, so I justify the extra commute time as an investment in my spiritual wealth. I need both halves to make me liturgically whole.

The secret to this dual life is careful organization; I am always prepared with fully-packed choir music tote bags, one for each parish, so that I’m prepared for anything the music directors request. (For you non-liturgical musicians, it’s akin to all those old Japanese monster movies. Whenever Godzilla arrived in town, stomping bridges and breathing fire, remember how the shrieking villagers all ran out of their houses in mere seconds, carrying fully-packed suitcases? That’s me on the way to my two different churches, except with less architectural damage and better breath.)

Prolonged singing was a tougher than usual this year due to the respiratory challenges, but years of cantoring and that hidden gill system I described last month have taught me how to breathe deeply without stirring up congestion, so I was able to go the distance. Snowy weather, mall traffic, enthusiastic homilies and extra hymn verses all led to longer Masses, frenzied commutes and nick-of-time arrivals. My usual diet, a nutritionist’s nightmare, deteriorated even further; meals consisted of twice-nuked coffee in a travel mug, Christmas cookies, cough medicine and aspirin for dessert.

My fatigue even caused me to envy the poor woman who fainted not 15 feet in front of the cantor podium as I sang the Memorial Acclamation at one Christmas Eve Mass; she looked so relaxed as the ushers picked her up, plopped her into a wheelchair, attached an oxygen mask, then wheeled her out into the breezeway.

When the Christmas liturgy marathon was concluded, I indulged in the annual secular Leslie ritual: a drive with my son to my brother’s house in north Jersey, where after I consumed a wonderfully home-cooked meal (look! I’m finally using silverware again!), I promptly fell asleep on the couch while the television broadcasted a never-ending loop of the movie “A Christmas Story.”

Upon arriving home, I surveyed my kingdom, where it looked as if Christmas itself had exploded: stacks of music on every flat surface, scattered holiday and birthday cards, an entire year’s worth of The Monitor issues spread across the floor in preparation for writing the Year-in-Review, discarded clothing and jewelry… you get the picture. The only small advantage to this maelstrom was that, if a thief were to break into my house, its current state would prompt him to think that one of his fellow miscreants had already visited and ransacked it.

I was exhausted. Where could I go to find that elusive Christmas peace everyone else had just found at Mass? Since any church equated with work right then, I instead followed the advice of one of my favorite songs, “Come to the Water”:

“Let all who toil/Let them come to the water/And let all who are weary/Let them come to the Lord.”

That’s it! The first not-too-frigid day that dawned would find me at the Jersey Shore; to paraphrase a famous non-liturgical philosopher, I wanted to talk to God and listen to the casual reply. Besides its natural beauty, my favorite New Jersey beach enjoyed another secret benefit: poor cell phone reception. I would be totally alone despite the temptation to reach out and whine, which usually aids in long-term friend retention.

A few days later, I donned my usual non-church raiment (on my rare top-to-bottom days off, I dress to emulate the little-known eighth Disney Dwarf: Schlumpy) and headed south on the Parkway.  I had a mission: to determine whether I should slow down and admit my weariness, or whether I should continue along this frenetic multi-church path. 

“I need a sign, Lord,” I pleaded.

What sort of sign would God send?  I didn’t truly expect a parting of the Atlantic Ocean a la Moses and the Red Sea, or even a twin-prop airplane trailing a banner saying “Yea” or “Nay” (it’s off season, after all), but I wanted SOME sort of easily-interpreted sign. Would He send a clear answer?

Strolling along the beach, half-heartedly looking for the more exotic shells tossed ashore by winter storms, I spotted something at the edge of the surf.  I thought I had seen everything this beach had to offer, but one more surprise greeted me: there rested a starfish, the very first I had ever encountered in the four-plus decades of my walking along this particular shoreline.

I was astounded: a starfish, this far north?  [Study break: Starfish are not truly fish but instead invertebrates of the kingdom Animalia, phylum Echinodermata – Greek for spiny skin – and class Asteroidea (sea stars).  Found in many temperate and tropical oceans, mostly near coral reefs, these tiny carnivores live on the sea floor and eat clams, oysters, coral, fish and other animals, and breathe through their tiny gills on underside of their legs.] 

“What is a starfish doing here in New Jersey in the dead of winter?” I wondered.

Finally, it dawned on me: this must be God’s sign that I should keep on my current path!

Now, if this column were written by anyone BUT me, the story would end here. The refreshed, enlightened woman would have pocketed the little gift from the sea, recognized that God was sending her a sign and walked back through the sand to her car as the soundtrack swelled in the Technicolor glory background.  But, this is me, so that is not the end of the story.

I laughed, looked up and said, “Got it God.  Cute imagery: star of Bethlehem, starfish. Okay, message received. Thanks.”

As I turned it round in my hand, I envisioned taking it home, shellacking it, tying on a ribbon, and giving it a place of prominence on my Christmas tree, perhaps even replacing the electric star at the top as a sign of God’s… Oh wait, eew, it’s still breathing!  It’s alive! What do I do now??

Over the past few months, I had already taxed the patience of St. Francis of Assisi with the groundhog and mouse, and Sts. Martha and Florian had bailed me out of the burned wok incident, so I didn’t want to offend St. Francis of Paola, the patron of the seas. (I don’t have these memorized, people: I just checked the “Saints and Angels” feature on the Catholic.org website, for I assumed my original guess of St. SpongeBob was probably wrong.)

I debated stuffing the five-limbed creature in my pocket anyway, but was guilt ridden at the thought of killing an innocent life form. Wincing, and hoping I was doing the right thing, I apologized to God and tossed it back into the sea.  Was this the sign?  Did I just blithely toss it away? Or was this a test (and me without a sharpened #2 pencil besides)?

I continued walking, and God rewarded me for my merciful deed: there on the shore before me was ANOTHER starfish!  A quick check of the underside told me that this creature’s life span had come to its end, so I gratefully put it in my pocket and walked on.  Hey, there’s another one!  And another!  By the time I turned around to walk towards the car, I had gathered over two dozen starfish on a beach that had never yielded one.

My pockets were long past filled, so I had taken off my one sweatshirt, tied it into a sling, and placed the wet, sandy creatures carefully upon it. Laughing, stumbling in the evening darkness and shivering, clad only in Capri shorts and a t-shirt, I made quite a sight, I’m sure, and a young father walking hand in hand with his young  daughter quickly pulled her away as I called out, “Hey, want a few starfish, little girl?”

I had my answer, in a form I could recognize: keep on with my dual life! It just goes to show: despite the lack of cell towers and transmission zones, God’s message always comes in loud and clear… with no roaming charges.