On a clear blue Saturday afternoon, a day I was tired, hopeful, and a little bit sad, I looked out our hotel room window to see the Cathedral of the Blessed Sacrament in downtown Sacramento. This has kind of been my summer, really. Tired, hopeful, and a little bit sad. Not a day goes by I don’t escape the fact that life is different now. We aren’t untouched by tragedy anymore. Just like I’m not Catholic anymore.

Yet, there she was: the downtown cathedral. “We can walk to mass in the morning,” I told Scott as he placed our bags in the room. Here we were to do anything our hearts’ desired, okay not anything because things cost money, but this was our weekend away. To rest. To enjoy ourselves. To Rest.

Did I say to rest?

A soft bed was our main priority. Our hotel room was small, and too high up on the 8th floor for me, but the bed fit us just right. And from the bed with its feather comforter and big fluffy pillows, I could see the downtown cathedral.

“That’s what you really want to do tomorrow?” Scott asked.

“Well, coffee and church sound about perfect to me.”

“Maybe we can find a preacher I like near here,” Scott suggested. A Protestant preacher and a Protestant church, he meant.

I didn’t answer, which was answer enough. After 30 years together, Scott knows my lack of a response is really an “I don’t like that idea” response.

He didn’t agree to mass, but didn’t nix it, either.

An hour later, we went to a farm to fork dinner that cost too much. After seeing the prices, I ordered just a salad. The waiter tried to talk Scott into the rabbit entree. “I’m not eating a rabbit,” Scott said in a way that embarrassed me. Like this was jack rabbit. A skinny, stinky rabbit.

“Actually, we’re farmers,” I confessed to the waiter. He looked at me like, well, that explains it. Hicks from the sticks. “Just bring him the beef entree,” I said with a weary smile. There was only one beef item on the menu, all the other entrees besides the rabbit were vegetable dishes. After sorta of enjoying our dinner, it was well-prepared and tasty, we rented a PG-13 movie that was pretty good, in spite of the fact that we both hid our eyes during some graphic sex scenes. If this is today’s PG-13, then I feel sorry for 13 year olds. And sorry for our society. This is the third movie this summer that has shocked us. We’re about ready to give up on new movies altogether because we have our own sex life and don’t need our hearts and minds mixed up about this. Mixing your heart and mind up with pornography, even if it’s soft pornography, isn’t good for you. And it certainly isn’t good for your marriage if you’re married.

But that’s a blog for another day. The day my mom no longer reads my blogs.

So back to taste and see…

The next morning I woke in time to watch the sun rise behind the cathedral. Scott was already awake. Our internal farmers’ alarm clocks obviously had no idea we were on vacation. “Mass is at 7 and 9 this morning,” Scott said as I walked over and stood in front of the window to watch the cathedral’s golden crosses shimmer in the early morning light.

“Maybe we can do 7,” I said, glancing at the clock beside the bed.

“How about we taste our coffee and catch the 9 o’clock service,” Scott suggested.

This tall brick building was our hotel. The quaint vanilla and brown building on the corner was the place where we found really good coffee. “This is how the other half lives,” I told Scott with no boys yelling for me to put on a morning movie. No loads of laundry to toss in the dryer between gulps of coffee. No horses to feed. Chickens to feed. Children to feed by 7 a.m..

Can you guess which is Scott’s and which is my coffee? He got his cup to sit down and savor. I asked for mine to-go thinking we’d keep walking. The heart the coffee man made on my latte reminded me of God’s love for me.

So what’s love got to do with going to church on a Sunday morning?

I used to think church was about rules. About old people falling asleep. About singing nuns. When I was a kid, we actually had nuns singing in church. I haven’t seen a nun in years. Except on Facebook. Two of my dear friends have nuns for daughters. These sweet-faced women are younger than me. I didn’t know it was possible for a nun to be younger than me.

Nuns are as old as stained glassed windows, aren’t they? I used to think this in my Catechism classes when I was learning from the nuns. Okay, I’m exaggerating. There was one young nun who taught us Catechism. Her English wasn’t good, I really didn’t understand a word she said, but she always smiled at us kids so that was educational. I learned nuns could be happy.

Returning to this cathedral made me happy. Much of the mass was sung. I tried to follow along on the handout they gave us, but didn’t have my reading glasses with me. So I just kind of mumble sung along like people do when they don’t know the words but might know the words. I recognized the songs from scripture. “Taste and see that the LORD is good.” Was sung over and over until an ache expanded in my chest that I couldn’t ignore. Couldn’t deny. Couldn’t not cry about.

So I sat there and cried.

I understand “taste and see.” At the farmers’ markets I always tell the people, “Come taste and see if you like our fruit.” I know if they taste the fruit, they will want some. Sometimes looking at fruit is not enough. Smelling fruit is not enough. It must be tasted.

Oh how I want to taste and see God is good. Even when life isn’t good. Even when beloved children die. And your family is shattered. Sliced into a hundred bleeding pieces by something you never saw coming. And summer feels like one long ache you try to deny.

I won’t be sad today because God is good, you tell yourself every day. But it’s a battle. And you go to work at the farmers’ markets where you don’t just tell the people your fruit is good. You always say, “taste and see for yourself that it is good.”

I’ve missed the Catholic Church. The stained glassed windows that bleed sunlight red. Blue. Green. And gold. The colors of the rainbow. Yet, not everybody sees the rainbow the same way these days.

But does this change the rainbow?

Does this change God?

I’ve heard Protestants belittle Catholics for building grand churches, but King David who loved God longed to build a grand temple for his God. And God told David this was good. “But the LORD said to my father David, ‘Because it was in your heart to build a house for My name, you did well that it was in your heart” 1 Kings 8:18.

The art in this downtown cathedral is incredible. Much of it donated not by Catholics, but rich Californians like the Crockers, Stanfords, and Fairmonts around the turn of the century. An Irish priest convinced California’s wealthy to spring for stained glassed windows from Europe and priceless works of art to adorn this place. The Irish priest had been too poor to go to seminary in Ireland, so he came to California as a young man, panned for gold, and used his earnings to go back to seminary in Ireland. Then he returned to California to serve a “godless society,” according to the cathedral tour guide we followed around after mass. I don’t know how good this Irish priest was at gathering souls in California, but he sure gathered gorgeous paintings and stunning stained glass to adorn this cathedral. And I guess California has always had the “godless” rap.

A lot of my Christian friends are leaving California, “Because it’s too liberal,” they say.

A lot of my Christian friends don’t like the Catholic Church, “Because it’s full of idols,” they say.

A lot of my Christian friends don’t understand gut-wrenching grief, “Because God is good,” they say. As if “God is good” nullifies grief.

And all of this is true. I know it’s true. But California is my home. And the Catholic Church is the cradle of my faith. And grief still gets me, even when God is good.

So I’m gonna cry over, “taste and see.” Because I deeply and truly understand, “taste and see…”

Farming is an honest business. Fruit doesn’t lie. I know our fruit tastes good. I eat it every day.