By Maura Sullivan Hill ‘11

During our first year of marriage, my husband and I went to Mass at several different parishes. We liked to go together, and with his jam-packed and unpredictable schedule as a first-year medical resident, time was usually the deciding factor. Whichever parish had a Mass at a time that we both could attend, that’s where we ended up. It worked just fine for that point in our lives, but meant that we didn’t really have a faith community.

When we moved to Chicago, things changed. We settled in a neighborhood with four churches within walking distance, and plenty more accessible by train or car. Our schedules were a little more flexible, and we wanted to find a parish community to call home. So we tried them all.

Old St. Patrick’s Church—with its welcoming atmosphere, focus on helping others, and liturgical music reminiscent of the Notre Dame Folk Choir we both enjoyed so much—was the most natural fit. There are plenty of Domers in the parish, so that also probably had something to do with why we felt at home there.

We had found our regular parish, and with that, our regular seats at Mass. More often than not, we sit in the balcony. I tell myself it’s because I like the expansive view of the altar and choir, but the fact that we are often running late (no matter where we are going) definitely plays a role. It’s less conspicuous to scoot into a balcony seat just as Mass is starting, rather than walking up the aisle to find a seat.

Recently, I realized that our balcony seat was becoming a metaphor for how we participated in the community at Old St. Pat’s. We were there, yes, but taking it all in from a distance.

So we got a bit more involved: giving weekly to the collection, buying an item for the annual Christmas Giving Tree, and taking the opportunity to sign the parish petition in support of refugees in Illinois. These were all important—but pretty easy—ways to get involved. I figured it was time to get out of the balcony a bit more literally.

So I decided to get involved with a group of parishioners and friends of the church who volunteer at the Greater Chicago Food Depository every month. We clean and sort produce from local farmers and food donations, packaging it for delivery to pantries, shelters, soup kitchens, and other organizations that help people and families in need of food. Sometimes there is heavy lifting, but the fact that the heavy box is filled with vegetables that will feed growing children in need of nutrients seems to give us all some extra strength.

We volunteer during the day on Tuesdays, and the group is mostly made up of retirees. I’m a freelance writer, so my flexible hours make it easy to participate, but it also means that I’m usually the youngest face in crowd. Even so, they have welcomed me with open arms, despite our different stages in life.

I’m inspired by how these men and women are choosing to spend their free time in retirement: using their bodies to help feed the hungry of the Chicagoland area. Some need a chair while they sort, others are proud to stand for the three or four hours that we are there. After the work is done, we gather for a potluck lunch, a reminder that we are fortunate to have food to nourish our bodies after a morning of work, and that we’re there to provide that same necessity for others.

My husband and I still sit in the balcony at Old St. Pat’s, but we’ve started getting there a bit earlier—in time for the pre-Mass introductions and handshakes. The time I’ve spent with the volunteers at the Food Depository reminded me that the Body of Christ is, after all, found in community.