Chapel of St. Cecilia
Atlanta, GA
United States of America
2013
Ever since he had moved to Atlanta, Mathieu found that he had been attending mass less than usual.
It wasn’t a conscious decision on his part; if anything, he genuinely felt bad for missing mass. It was a habit he stuck to when he still lived in San Francisco—hell, it was something he kept doing when he had lived all the way back in France. Attending mass was his own version of quiet time, just as it had been his mother’s. The French responses and prayers remained stuck in his head, with the English almost as much—if not a little jumbled here and there. (Then again, he was still working on his English, so he sort of had a free pass there.)
He still prayed the rosary from time to time. The white rosary his mother had given way back remained in his pocket, while the habit of praying at least once a week before bed was still ingrained into his heart and memories. He still prayed, at least. He made the time, never quite forgot. There was a Bible in his bedside table that he referred to from time to time.
Mathieu tried to believe that he was still a good Catholic. His mother would probably agree before giving him a mildly scolding look, scold him gently, and remind him to say nothing like that. Of course he was a good Catholic. He was a good person, after all.
And he tried to believe that. He really did.
