Mass, Mistakes, and the Fine Girls in the Third Pew

Or, How I Rang the Bell at the Wrong Time and Somehow Became “Broda Lector”

They told us the sanctuary was holy ground. That only the pure and reverent could stand there.
So naturally, they put a group of slightly hungry, slightly overconfident teenage boys in charge of it.

I remember my first day serving at Mass.

I showed up two hours early, ready to impress heaven and earth. My white vestment was freshly ironed and three inches too long. The cincture was tied too tightly. And I looked like a Dominican monk who had lost his monastery and wandered into a suburban parish.

My heart was beating like crazy.
I tripped on my own vestment during the entrance procession.
Then came the moment — The Consecration. The most sacred part of the Mass.
My job was simple: ring the bell once when the priest lifts the Host. It’s Father Dan.

Instead, I rang it like it was break time after the 5th period on Friday back in secondary school.
Cling cling cling cling cling cling cling cling cling cling!
Even Father flinched.
One parishioner gasped and lifted his head, scared that the rapture was happening or something.
My fellow altar server side-eyed me with enough judgment to cause spiritual damage.

But I didn’t die.
No angel descended to smite me.
The roof didn’t cave in.
So I figured I’d keep serving. I kept showing up early, eager, overdoing everything.

I knew all the Mass parts by heart — Latin and English. I could predict which readings would make Father preach for 45 minutes and which incense type made the thurible choke the lectors. I mastered the art of walking like I was levitating. Genuflecting with swagger. Holding the missal like it was the final Horcrux.

In a way, I thought I had arrived spiritually. I was God’s assistant.

And then, university happened.

Let me just say: nothing humbles your holiness like university.
Suddenly, there was no bell to ring. No cassock to wear.
No sacristan calling your name like you were late for heaven.

The parish closest to my school was about 30 minutes away.
Ten of those 30 minutes? Uphill. Through bushes.

With the occasional suspicious cat and one hyper-alert security man who judged you if you wore a face cap.

Mass started at 6:30 a.m.
Sharp.
No evening Masses, because apparently, salvation in that parish only worked before sunrise, lol.

So I missed Mass.
One week. Then two. Then a month.
At some point, I told myself, “God understands,” which is code for, “I’m spiritually lazy and soldier ants bit me on the way last time.”

It got worse. I stopped going to Confession, stopped receiving the Eucharist.
Started falling into sin, and I mean Olympic-level sin.
The kind where, when you lie down at night, your guardian angel just looks at you like, “Really? Again? Bruhhh”

I stopped trying.
I’d pray occasionally, those lazy “God abeg” kind of prayers.
I became a master of holy excuses.
”The Mass is far.”
”I don’t have money for keke or bike.”
”I overslept.”
”I need to rest.”
My spiritual life turned into one long episode of Ghost Mode: Catholic Edition.

Until one random Saturday, I woke up and I just... missed it. I missed the silence of the chapel. Missed the awkward smiles between altar boys when one of them makes a mistake. Missed the smell of incense, the kneeling, the way the sunlight hit the tabernacle just right at 7:12 a.m., making it glow with radiant beauty.

So I got up. I didn’t think too hard. Brushed my teeth like I was brushing off shame.
Wore my cleanest senator (because why not?). The one that screams “I’m trying.” And I began the walk.

The cat saw me and walked away slowly, judgmentally.
The hill felt steeper than ever.
But I got there.

Late.

I sat at the back. I didn’t even try to join the offertory. I just sat, listened, and breathed.
I think I cried silently during the Consecration. I didn’t even receive. I was overdue for Confession.
But I felt... known. Not judged. Not ashamed. Just known. And loved anyway.

Didn’t even mind that I couldn’t receive. I was just happy to be home.

That’s the thing about grace. It doesn’t yell at you, it just waits. Sometimes it’s disguised as a cat, a hill, or a half-forgotten hunger for holiness.

These days, I don’t wear a cassock or swing thuribles anymore.
I’m a lector now.

The vestment is lighter. The pressure is lesser, except when the First Reading has names like Nebuchadnezzar or Mahershalalhashbaz (yes, it's in Isaiah).
The stares are different now.

Fine babes in the third pew pause when I approach the lectern (not that I’m looking at them oo, please — I’m focused on the Word).
CWO mummies now call me “Broda Lector” with that mixture of affection, curiosity, and “this one go make good son-in-law” energy.

I no longer ring bells.
But I’m still close to the sanctuary, and somehow, it feels even holier now.

Not because I’m better, but because I’m more honest, more aware that being near the altar doesn’t mean you’ve arrived; it just means you’re still being drawn close.

I’ve stumbled. Wandered. Prayed with empty hands.
And somehow, I’ve found my way back, not as the perfect altar boy, but as a growing man who still finds peace in the quiet rhythm of Mass, in the soft turning of lectionary pages, in the calm before the Gospel.

I feel at ease there. At home.
And more than anything else, I always want to be at home.

And on the days when I still feel far, when my hands feel too empty or my heart too tired, I just whisper one prayer:

“Mother Mary, please hold my place for me.”
She always does.
No eye-rolls, no guilt trips.
Just the quiet presence of a woman who’s seen it all, and still believes I’ll make it back — every time.

With joy, lector robes, and one eye on the third pew (don’t judge me, we don’t do that here),

A growing man.