Adventures of a Wandering Thirtysomething

“It’s still open. They have Mass there every Sunday,” said Chris, one of our lovely hosts at Quinta Do Mar. 

We had been talking about the Church of Santa Cruz.

Despite some digging prior to our trip, the church was the only piece of information we could connect to my ancestors that didn’t involve hiring a lawyer or spending hours at Azorean registries. And that day, we had found the church.

Built right on the ocean cliffs in 1507, the church was pocked with scars and bore its 500+ years of age rather heavily. The unpainted church doors and locked up appearance led us to assume it had been shuttered for years. We snapped several photos and slowly walked the streets around it, pointing out homes and buildings that would have been standing when my great grandmother, her parents and generations before lived there.

Satisfied by locating a piece of my family’s history, we didn’t think much more of it. That is, until our hosts gave us a rather

We had to go. 

I can’t remember the last time I was giddy to go to church. But as we walked up the steps for Mass, I was downright excited. We were careful to get there early and find a seat at the very back where we wouldn’t completely stick out like a sore thumb when we didn’t know when to stand, when to kneel or when to do just about anything since the church was not only Catholic but entirely in Portuguese. 

Despite our attempt to blend in and not call attention to ourselves, the crowd of church-goers was clearly curious. We got a lot of looks. I’m going to blame it on Matt’s brown-blond hair and beard, neither of which are anywhere to be found on the Azores. Our hosts told me I looked Azorean, so it clearly wasn’t me. J

As the service started, I gazed around the sanctuary thinking about my own ancestors sitting in those same pews to worship. And though I have no idea what was said, I had to hold back tears as the swells of singing made me feel instantly connected to the previous generations of my family and to the people around me who were worshiping.

When we got to the communion, which I had totally forgotten about, my stomach did a little flutter. I always mess up communion. Always. Now I was going to mess it up in a foreign country. 

When our turn was up, there was no wine. Thank you, God. One less thing for me to mess up. But there was bread. Apparently, you are supposed to open your mouth and they put the wafer on your tongue. Matt somehow figured this out and did it right. I’m clueless, so I held out my hands. The poor man giving it to me looked totally confused, but rather than hold up the line, they just dropped it in my hands so I could move on. When I got back to my seat, knowing there was nothing but a 100% chance I screwed it up, I immediately turned to Matt and asked him what he did when he got his bread. He told me. Yep, screwed it up. Never fails.

After communion was baby dedication/baptism time (not being Catholic, I have no idea what the tradition is). Prior to the service, we had watched family after family bring crowns into the church, wondering what they were for. We quickly learned this is part of the dedication ceremony. Each family stood at the foot of the altar with their baby holding the crown over the baby’s head as the priest anointed and/or baptized (not sure) each one, then shook a rattle-looking object at each one. 

It was fascinating, to say the least. And I apologize to any Catholics who are reading this and laughing at me if this is a normal, at-every-church-service event. It was completely new to me. Maybe y’all can help a girl out and explain what the heck is going on. 

And then it was over with a few last words from the priest and his procession down the aisles. 

As we headed out of church, we took one last look and one last picture to capture a memory that will stay with me forever. What an amazing way to spend our final day in the Azores, connected so uniquely and so personally to ancestors I’ve never met, but whose existence means my existence.