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Mass.com: Looking for Love in My Sunday Best

When seeking divine intervention in finding my soul mate, I learned that my mother was right when she said, "The Lord truly works in mysterious ways."

After my Epic Breakup came a period of time I refer to as The Dark Ages. Now, no one wants to relive The Dark Ages, so I’ll just skip over those few months and chalk it up to a loss– a loss of 10 pounds, a loss of several hundred dollars in “retail therapy” and a loss of numerous Facebook friends who unintentionally steered my own social network broadside into pictures of my deliriously happy Ex with a wide array of blondes.

After The Dark Ages came a Renaissance; an awakening. I decided to find God again.

I was raised Roman Catholic and have been on-again-off-again as a practicing one. It was time to go "on" again. I sent Him the following email:

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Dear God, I need a new boyfriend. A nice, good, honest, salt-of-the-earth Catholic boyfriend this time– preferably between the ages of 28 and 36– who will ask me to marry him, and then deliver! Send.

After several weeks of patiently waiting for my religious knight in shining armor to knock on my door, proclaim that word of my beauty and virtue had spread far and wide throughout the land and request my hand in marriage, I realized that if I wanted something done right, I had to do it myself. I was just going to have to go to church.

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I put on my Sunday best and went to 10 o’clock mass at St. Bernadette’s in East Haven. The church was filled with the elderly and splashes here and there of families with small children– not one apparently eligible bachelor. The next week I tried the earlier service thinking maybe all the 20-30 year old Catholic singles like to get an early start on their Sundays so they could fill the rest of the day with romantic Sunday day-trips along the shoreline. Wrong.

The next week, I tried two different masses at (one Saturday and one Sunday), where I decided that East Haven was suffering from a dearth of young adult Catholics. It was time to move to a new town.

I found in Branford. St. Mary’s was the name of the high school I attended in Colorado, so I felt like that was a good sign. There were plenty of high school kids at this St. Mary’s also– unfortunately, their older brothers must all be living out of state.

Not one to be discouraged easily, I decided I just needed to work a little bit harder– it was time to employ my critical thinking skills. If I were ever going to find Mr. Tall Dark and Catholic, I’d have to start thinking like a bachelor.

Bachelors don’t live in the suburbs. They don’t go to wine tastings or rent cute little houses in Short Beach. They live with roommates and hang out in the city!

I launched myself into a search for churches in downtown New Haven and found St. Anthony’s. I couldn’t believe my good fortune! St. Anthony is the patron saint of lost stuff, and I felt just about as lost as I could be. As I walked into the beautiful old cathedral, I couldn’t believe my eyes: SAME STORY, DIFFERENT STEEPLE!

Admittedly, I spent most of the mass looking over my shoulder waiting for that special someone to duck in late, splash himself with some holy water and sheepishly slink into the seat I was saving for him. He never showed. I left in a huff, feeling slightly stood up. I didn’t know who my future husband was, but I did know that he had let me down again.

When I got home, I sought advice from one of my high school classmates. After graduation, she went to Yale where she met and subsequently married a wonderful man. He is Jewish. I told her I was just about ready to convert and asked her if there was one “b” or two in Shabbat because I wanted to score an invitation to one next week.

“Have you tried St. Thomas Moore?” she asked.

“No, I must have missed that one in my Google searching.”

“You have to go! It’s the church at Yale so there are lots of people our age and you can join the bible study that meets every week. I loved it!”

Church at Yale? Young soon-to-be doctors and lawyers with trust funds and maybe even the future President of the United States!? Scenes from Love Story flashed in my mind. This was a great idea! How did I not think of it on my own?

I signed up that day.

The bible study is called Small Church Community (SCC). I was so nervous to go the first night that I almost skipped it, but I somehow managed to pull myself together. 

I made my grand entrance about ten minutes late. I tripped over the door frame, dropped my purse, cursed, and flashed the smile my parents had re-mortgaged the house for (years in braces).

“Hello, I’m Maureen!”

I was greeted with enthusiasm from the SCC members – they were all faculty from Yale. My first thought was, “Lord, I said 28–36 years old, not 28-36 years older than me!

My disappointment faded fast; I loved the people in my SCC. Although I had initially imagined scandalous scenes of playing footsie while discussing the gospel, I found myself privy to the wisdom of the ages, entirely engrossed in meaningful conversation.

I learned a lot at SCC – like I should stop treating mass as my personal Match.com. I still attend church at St. Thomas Moore with that thought, just in case.

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