When one's children leave the nest, parents receive word of all sorts of alarming developments. My newly wed daughter's hair has unaccountably become blue, a trait the Bear hopes does not show up in either his mate or himself.
But if they are practicing Catholics there comes the Search for the Church. St. Mary's has bongos; St. Bonaventure was a misadventure.
Well, Sunshine, cry me a freakin' river.
Pull up your big boy pants and consider this: Jesus isn't too good to come down from Heaven into every church where Mass is said and -- bad music or not -- into your disgustingly imperfect soul.
This is where the Bear is decidedly non-traditionalist. Get out a map and a ruler and find the closest church as the crow -- to use some fine Benedictine imagery -- flies. That's where you go and learn to pray in and put up with a less than perfect world. Jesus will appreciate your humility more than your fine sensibilities, I promise.
It is a fool proof method and avoids the trap of not going to Mass at all because you cannot find one that suits you.
Besides. Are you 100% certain Jesus doesn't like bongo drums?
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