Yesterday, a disturbed man entered our church in the middle of mass. He didn’t appear to be homeless, or otherwise in a bad financial state. He was wearing clean, white shorts, sunglasses and had headphones on with music blaring so loud that everyone could hear it.
He walked down the center aisle and sat in a pew near the altar. When our deacon came down the steps and asked him to turn his music off, this man began to yell. Loudly.
A group of men jumped to the deacon’s aide and they escorted the intruder to the back of the church and out a set of doors. One of those men was my husband. My kids began to cry.
I won’t get in to what my husband told me this man said when they were back there, but it was a lot of nonsense and there were some threats made. The police were called. Had I known the words that were coming out of his mouth, I would have taken my kids and ran. The entire ordeal was very unsettling.
I held my weeping son with one arm and had my other arm wrapped around my daughter’s shoulder, pulling her tight. She stared up at me. Then I leaned over and whispered, “Maybe we should pray for him.”
And, once again, I was reminded that she is growing up because she replied, “I already did.”