The feast of the Sacred Heart

Last night my husband and I went to a sung Latin Mass at our back up parish in the suburbs. Fr. Aragorn (that's what we call him) really knows his Latin. He didn't mutter or slur his words. I appreciated that. The schola from (I think) St. Mary's in DC came to sing and they had the A team of altar boys and even the cantor sang better than usual.

I saw several young ladies with mantillas on. Mine was accidentally left in the car so I threw on the scarf that I had in my bag. Rocky looked at me and asked if I wanted him to run back to the car to get it because he knows I don't feel right being uncovered in church anymore. It looked like it was about to storm so I told him not to bother. Mass itself was beautiful and was marred only by the inconsiderate EWTN wannabe commentator sitting behind me.

This man gave a running explanation of what was going on through most of the Mass to the person sitting with him. He let his son kick the back of our pew and the tyke's little fingers got into my hair twice. I guess the little guy was standing on the kneeler trying to get a better look but the first time I felt those fingers in my hair I just about jumped out of the pew from shock. I did not offer the man the sign of peace (why be a hypocrite?) and I did not go to Communion.

Fr. Aragorn preached a homily that moved me to tears and after Mass the Blessed Sacrament was exposed. Fr. Theoden gave an impressive benediction homily and there was Confession (yeah, I went) until 10:45.