I was expecting a lonely night tonight, as has been my custom. You don’t really get to celebrate your birthday if you don’t have friends, or so they say. I don’t pay attention to social media. It’s no use looking at that stuff, no use feeling left out. Left out, from what?

Getting together with people my age, who are probably getting wasted? Yeah, that’s the term alright. Why would anyone want to get “wasted”, anyways? To escape, by wasting yourself away by getting drunk in front of people who at best don’t really care about you, or at worst, want you vulnerable so that they can treat you like garbage, like waste?

I have barely anything in common with these people beyond being in the same age group.

A vibration from my phone grabbed my attention. Curiously looking down on my desk, I read the notification—it was a text, and the name struck a chord within me: Bianca Belmonte.

Her? What was she doing contacting me?

Bianca, with her flowing blonde hair and sensual appearance, had been considered the most attractive girl I’d gone to high school with. Whether during lunch, towards the end of classes when we were given some minutes to ourselves, and especially in the locker room, my male peers would intone her name and offer up sentences so filthy and so crude that they seemed to pollute the air with their wretched speech, that if it were visible, it would encase the school in a cloud of filthiness that would rival Beijing’s smog. Though I didn’t believe in anything higher than myself at the time, a thought came to mind whenever I heard that dross: Surely there must be something greater to live for than this.

She didn’t do anything to alleviate this image; like most women these days, it was quite apparent that she knew of her “reputation” and even seemed to revel in it. I hadn’t interacted with her much really, maybe for a group project here and there. She was cordial enough with me I suppose, but to her and girls like her, I didn’t really exist. In retrospect, I realize that was truly a blessing in disguise. The last time I saw her was three years ago at graduation. And now she was contacting me, on my birthday?

Several thoughts animated my weary mind, now animated by this mystery:

What does she want? Is some kind of joke or something? Or maybe she really does want to reach out to me?

I only needed to hone in on the words on the screen before my face to find the answer:

“Hey Vito!! If you’re feeling lonely on your special day, don’t feel bad! As my present to you, here’s an exclusive discount to use on my OF page!”

I caught sight of the jagged trail of jumbled letters and symbols that constituted the link she pasted in the message, and just froze in place. I boiled with anger on the inside. I felt the sudden urge to smash my phone against the wall, but calming down, I proceeded to block her number and then put it back down. My eyes watered, and I sensed tears run down my face. She knew I’d probably be alone tonight, and figured she’d profit off my misery!

This had to be the cruelest thing anyone had ever done to me. I should have seen it coming too. Girls don’t treat guys like me with respect, with kindness. Was that ever going to change?

A more soothing thought came to me: At least I have my parents and my brother.

I sat down on my bed, and pensively realized the truth of that statement. Even though they hadn’t always seen eye to eye with me, they really did care for me. At least I had some cake with them a little earlier. That was more valuable than any of the presents they had gotten me; after all, you can’t put a price on the time you spend with family.

So many people don’t even get to have a simple birthday celebration like the one I just had. I know there’s people out there who have no family and no friends, or family so horrible they might as well have none. So who am I to complain?

Yet my heart was yearning for more. And I knew why, in fact, I had been thinking about this for some time; tomorrow was Sunday, and I was going to go back to church for the first time in years. My depressing high school days and their aftermath forced me to truly examine the basis I had nurtured against anything remotely Christian since the eighth grade, when I had asserted myself as a “convinced” atheist. False knowledge had puffed me up, and the alienation I went through humiliated me, while at the same time granted me a lot of time to think about these deep subjects.

Seizing the thought, the realization that consistently confronted me that something must be greater than what society was offering me, I investigated. I couldn’t just join any church or any religion for that matter, no, that wouldn’t do. As I had heard an atheist once say, either one religion is right, or all of them are wrong. I ended up gravitating towards websites, sermons, all sorts of wonderful information about so-called “Traditional” Catholicism, and heard profound truths that I had never heard in my childhood religion classes. I realized that the incoherent “Novus Ordo” sham I knew as “Catholicism” as a boy was not truly the faith of my Italian-American forefathers.

But I wished to silence my mind. I couldn’t be up all night and expect to get to Mass on time. To the left of my phone and folded neatly was the page in which I wrote down all the sins I could remember, having done my examination of conscience earlier. Turning on my phone, I read the time: 11PM. Sensing urgency, I got down on my knees and prayed three Hail Marys, having heard of this powerful custom from good souls on the Internet. After closing out my day with prayer, I was content to set my alarm for tomorrow and climbed into bed, where I drifted off into sleep.

After getting up at around 8AM, I prepared myself for the big day ahead of me. This was going to be my first Latin Mass in real life. I was going by myself; sadly my parents didn’t want to come with me, but at least they respected my views. I got into my car, and after punching in the address of the church on my phone’s map, I drove off to this new chapel. I was anxious, but I was also full of hope for what lay in store for me. Considering that my drive was a little over thirty minutes, I managed to pray the rosary, which certainly helped me to elevate my mind to God and disregard my little worries.

When I pulled into the parking lot, I saw that there were many cars, but thankfully I managed to find a spot for myself. As I walked through the doors of the church, fear started to creep back into my soul. Seeing all of these souls, these men, women, and children of differing ages and races respectably dressed and with their missals and rosaries in hand, they seemed to give me their confidence, and I sensed my shoulders loose.

I took a seat in one of the pews in the back. It seemed that Mass would be starting soon.

But then a foul thought struck me:

“Look at yourself. You think you belong here with all these good, pious people? If only they knew you, they would throw you out the doors of this church and you know it!”

In response, I moved the kneeler forward and bowed towards my Redeemer, whose sign and self was portrayed here, above a white altar beautifully adorned. Here He was truly represented, with blood and crown and wounds, and therefore recognizing Him, I commended my spirit into His Hands.

God had led me here. Surely then I would find a place among these souls in His Church.

My downcast head was immediately lifted, as I reacted suddenly to a bell being rung. Mass was starting!

In unison with the faithful, I stood up in reverence, as I saw a small legion of altar boys accompany a priest to the sanctuary. As a choir sang somewhere behind me, I felt myself immersed in the Presence of my God, unworthy as I was.

A small Mass-book right in front of me helped me to understand some of the beautiful ceremonies and prayers on the linguistic level; but I found myself struck by simply watching the Mass as it unfolded in front of me. Here was an authenticity that could only immerse me by being here; no video or photo I had seen on the Internet came close. When it came time for the priest to give the sermon, I hung on his every word. The subject of the sermon, after all, was quite relevant to me—it was about Confession. Never before did I hear any priest, or even a mere man, speak with such power yet with such simplicity. It was as if a scene from the Age of the Apostles had been recreated, and recast in our time!

But in a sense, that was what was going on. Not that this church was some kind of act, no quite the opposite. What was happening here, other than a continuation of the immortal tradition?

When the good father mentioned the example of St. Augustine and St. Margaret of Cortona, great sinners who by penance became great saints, consoled me all the more.

Yes, this priest, and these faithful, they weren’t going to look down on me for standing in the confessional line. If anything, they were going to see a kindred soul in me for having the honesty to admit my sinfulness by doing so.

The time came for the Consecration; when the priest lifted Christ up, I understood what was really happening in a way that the Novus Ordo Masses of my childhood had ever conveyed to me. Christ was really and truly in our midst, and, knowing the misery of my state, I had to stay behind as others better than me went to receive Him. The Mass soon ended after Communion.

After a prayer of solemn Thanksgiving, I exited the chapel and went downstairs, where some of the faithful were speaking to one another. Being afraid to introduce myself to anyone, I gravitated towards a small library I noticed in my peripheral vision. Among them I recognized many titles, but I some others that were new to me and filled me with curiosity. Since the priest wasn’t going to be available right after Mass, I’d figured that I was going to wait here, and perhaps read a little from a book that caught my attention. I had always found comfort in the world of books.

My eyes found a title of a book that gave me a smile: Prayer: The Key to Salvation by Fr. Michael Muller. It was the same edition as the copy I had back home. I was flipping through the pages, when suddenly a feminine voice addressed me, and drew me out of my zone:

“Hello! I don’t want to disturb you from your spiritual reading, but I’m looking for something myself. There are a lot of options, and school makes it hard for me to decide on what to read in my free time…”

Caught off guard, I looked up and into the face of the one who was speaking to me. She was a comely girl around my age, and carried herself in the way a true woman should. She dressed the part too. I sensed no tricks, no cruelty in her smile. There was, strangely enough to me, a very real interest from this real girl to get to know me.

“Well, certainly I recommend this one,” holding up the book in my hands. “It has really helped me to understand the importance of prayer.”

She listened attentively. My anxiety fading with each word, I continued:

“As you probably can tell, I am new here, as I only found out about the Latin Mass and the Traditional Faith recently. I was raised Novus Ordo, and I almost never prayed when I was little. So it was quite natural that I ended falling into complete atheism. But thanks be to God that I have converted.”

And she said to me with a look of wonder on her face, “With a story like that, I’ll be sure to remember this book! I thought you were new. What’s your name?”

“I’m Vito,” I replied.

And she, reaching her hand out to me said, “I’m Maria.”

I shook her hand and marveled. Never before had a girl treated me with such respect.

“Where is Father?” I inquired to her.

“He’ll be out of the sacristy in a minute or two. I’m sure you have many questions to ask him,” she said to me in a friendly tone.

“I sure do. Thank you, Maria.”

Turning her head, she noticed that the rest of her family was getting ready to leave, and said to me, “Nice to meet you Vito! I hope to see you again soon.”

“Likewise, Maria,” I replied happily.

And surely enough I saw the good priest once again, dressed in a black cassock this time. I was able to introduce myself to him, and towards the end of our conversation, I mentioned my desire to have him hear my confession, which he readily obliged.

As I entered the wooden confessional, I sensed that this was the beginning of a new chapter of my brief life that would outshine all the others.