Joseph M. Madda
Back when I lived in Los Angeles, California, I ushered every Sunday at the 10:00 am family mass for St. Cyril of Jerusalem Roman Catholic Church in the Encino neighborhood. St. Cyril was a mid-century modern worship space with a handsome interior. It was one of a string of such churches built along Ventura Boulevard during the post-World War Two boom years, when single family houses in the valley were affordable. Seeking them, Catholic families crowded into the San Fernando Valley and produced the baby boom. By the time I was there in the 1990’s and early 2000’s, that boom was long gone, but the parishes remained, although with reduced congregations.
I and three other men worked together ushering for many years. I must say we were dedicated. We enjoyed welcoming worshipers and ensuring a satisfying religious experience. I start ushering at St. Cyril’s myself because one of my future crew welcomed my family and me to our first mass after we moved into the parish. He was so kind and happy looking that I knew on the spot I wanted to be a volunteer like him.
We were good at what we did. We helped people to seating, collected offerings, guided folks up to the altar for communion, and kept the place neat and organized. You would be amazed at the car keys, spectacles, wallets, and purses we found forgotten in the pews after the mass let out. Of course we carefully stored those items until the absent-minded returned to church looking for them.
During mass, in the vestibule at the back of the church, we had some time between formal duties to sit down on a wooden bench, relax, and talk about everything and anything that came to mind. We always sat in the same order, with the oldest man, our tacitly acknowledged chief, at one end. The conversations were lively, Although we did not see much of each other outside of church, it was clear we looked forward to our Sunday chats.
In those days, to respect the church we always wore formal attire – business suits, dress shirts and ties, shined shoes - and most of all, we each wore a special pin. It was a small rectangle of metal clipped to a jacket pocket. With a silver border line, dark blue enamel infill background and raised silver, capital sans-serif letters, it proclaimed our proud status in one word: USHER. Later on the church issued cheaper plastic badges, but I never liked those. I continued to wear the same metal pin throughout my service there. I cherished that little badge of honor and still have it today.
Toward the end of my service, these experiences inspired me to write a short story called “The Usher.” Little did I know at the time that this first foray into short fiction would lead to multiple, often interconnected tales. Eventually a collection of 14 of them were published in hardback. I still envision myself back then, well-dressed and posing with my grinning crew around me in the vestibule. Yes, we were proud of those memorable times.