I love Sundays.

I really do. Especially around here, Sundays are the perfect day to take a step back from the world and realign your priorities. Last Sunday, I went to Saint Martha's (remember Father Bob, Newman kids?), so this was my first Sunday at Saint Paul's in McKee, which will in all likelihood be my home parish this year.

Mass starts at 11:45, which actually means 12:00. I know. Meant to be, right? It's a tiny community compared to Saint Joseph's on Long Island; no more than forty people are members of the parish, and the majority of that number is made up of a few families. The church itself is small - split into three main sections: the church, a play area, and a gathering area with an attached kitchen.

Throughout Mass, you can hear the cheerful chatter of the several small children in the building, and a few not-so-hushed conversations of the older folks in the back. There's an adorable little girl in front of me who starts to twirl during every song and, at one point, announces to the congregation that she likes my "beads" (the infamous pearls, Ceparano girls). The priest (who, I discover, has only been here a few months) is lively and down-to-earth, delivering a homily about the Beatitudes, Mother Teresa, and serving the poor out of true love for God that hooks me. When the time comes to offer signs of peace, the pews practically empty out; everybody walks around giving hugs and laughing with each other, careful not to leave anybody out. At Mass's end, everyone reconvenes in the gathering area for lunch. Well, almost everyone.

I'm stopped in the lobby by a gentleman named Mac. He shakes my hand and asks if I'm new here. I was pretty prepared to go through the motions of introducing myself to a new community again; I've got the whole modified life story thing down to a fifteen-second science. But before I can start into it, he takes my left hand and says, "I can't help but notice you don't have a wedding ring. How'd you like to become a rich, young widow? I probably don't have too much time left, anyway."

I throw back my head and laugh. Talk about being caught off-guard. Mac nods earnestly, though, and says, "You're exceptionally beautiful. But you probably get that all the time." Let me pause here to advise any and all single men reading this that this particular course of action is risky unless you're a kindly older man with a southern accent. I shake Mac's hand and tell him that it's been a real pleasure talking to him, and as I walk away I mutter under my breath, "How red is my face?" Alex, a fellow volunteer, readily answers, "Very."

I got to talking to Mac over lunch, though. He's a funny, charming fellow with an incredible knowledge of local and family history. He tells me about Kentucky's early years, and how his family first came here from Virginia in 1790. In fact, his ancestors were the first settlers of the south fork of the Kentucky River. We talk about his life and he asks me about mine. Frankly, his is a lot more interesting. He tells me about his kids, and his past jobs, the old antiques he has saved from the nineteenth century. He warns me that I'll probably fall in love while I'm down here. I laugh even harder.

In the end, he asks if I'd like to go to Ireland with him when I'm done with CAP. I'll think about it.

Edit: Text message received from my mother at 2:25 pm EST reads, "No more church for you... and you're not going to Ireland!" Good to see you're making technology work for you, Mom :)