Sacred Smoke

It was nasty cold on Christmas Eve, 1957. Cold that made my ten year old bones rattle.

I didn't want to go out, but I had no choice. Our parish was celebrating our first Christmas Eve midnight mass in the new church. It was going to be packed. The girls' chorus and the altar boys had reserved seats in the front pews. Parents and family members and neighbors had to fend for themselves.

Plus, it was a solemn high mass with processions and singing and incense. That meant a long time to stand if there was an overflow.

I had to arrive an hour early. I was only in 6th grade and surprised when selected to be one of the servers. Maybe it was because I was a serious kid who had been serving mass for two years. I also knew all the Latin responses.

The church was jammed. The church boiler was set to high. The grand ceremony began.

I remember bits and pieces of that night 68 years ago. In particular, I remember the heat. People were shredding scarfs and opening coats. Ushers opened side windows slightly.

I especially remember the incense. Lots and lots of incense. Frankincense and myrrh spooned onto a hot coal in a censer to bless the altar and offerings with sacred smoke.

I began to feel woozy. At some quiet point, I exited the altar. I rushed, unseen, down steps toward the school. An usher appeared and crushed a cotton capsule near my face. Ammonia fumes jolted me. He cracked open an exterior door. Frigid air burst in, clearing my head.

Against his wishes, I slipped quietly back onto the altar.

Afterwards, I told my parents I was OK. They didn't know what I was talking about. As far as they knew, I never left the altar.

Mark Twain wrote: "I've lived through some terrible things in my life, some of which actually happened."

Copyright © 2025 by James Hugh Comey