hymn wasn't necessary. In fact, we had the translation handy on cards that were given out in the church. What mattered was that through the singing itself we were connecting with the Divine.
The prayer said at this service was called the Divine Praises.
Blessed be God.
Blessed be His holy name.
Blessed be Jesus Christ, true God and true man.
Blessed be the Name of Jesus.
Blessed be His most Sacred Heart.
Blessed be Jesus in the Most Holy Sacrament of the Altar.
Blessed be the great Mother of God, Mary most holy.
Blessed be her holy and Immaculate Conception.
Blessed be the name of Mary, Virgin and Mother.
Blessed be St. Joseph, her most chaste Spouse.
Blessed be God in His Angels and in His Saints.
This was of course a chant, and as a chant it had a lulling effect on us as we heard it or repeated it. The litanies that were said to the Blessed Virgin had the same effect. They were in English, and the priest would address the Virgin title by title, after each of which we would say, "Pray for us." The titles were mysterious and intriguing: Virgin Most Faithful; Mirror of Justice; Seat of Wisdom; Cause of Our Joy; Spiritual Vessel; Vessel of Honor; Singular Vessel of Devotion; Mystical Rose; Tower of David; Tower of Ivory; House of Gold. There were about five times that many titles.
As we knelt participating in this litany we were indeed lulled into a trancelike quiet, meditating on what the words might mean, or merely addressing the Virgin Mary, talking to her, giving our hearts to her under all these many names, and praying for her to intercede with her Divine Son for us and help us.
The effect of almost all prayer, whether during Mass, or during a novena service or during a benediction service, was to lull us into a state of meditation, a state in which the mind was free of all worldly distractions, and was thinking about or of the Divine.
And it worked extremely well, it seemed to me.
We loved the entire exercise, and when the service ended, we left the chapel a little intoxicated by the experience and in an elevated mood.
I don't remember ever not wanting to go to a Mass or a service. I don't remember ever getting bored during one.
My mind wandered and my eyes wandered over the many images surrounding me, but the entire experience retained its unique quality, and sent me back out into the world refreshed.
There were other experiences interwoven in this tapestry of beauty and worship, and they also played a part in what faith meant to me.
From the earliest times, my mother read poems to me and my sisters. She had one book of poems which she liked above all, and there were perhaps seven or eight poems she especially loved to read. These weren't religious poems, but she was as regular with this reading as she was with churchgoing; and we learned these poems.
Again, this was a preliterate experience for me. In fact, it was more especially that for me than it was perhaps for others. Because I didn't learn to read from this, as I think perhaps my older sister did. Try as I might, I could never, in later years, read any poem in this book that was not one which my mother had read to me. The audible poem was the only poem that existed for me. I couldn't "hear" the others. And reading did not alter the influence or the feeling invoked in me by these poems. I'll talk more about this later.
Another important element of my childhood was radio. - This was a world that knew nothing of television, but there was a small radio in just about every room in the house, and throughout my childhood the radios were on all day.
I remember lying on the floor listening to the morning soap operas, Our Gall Sunday and The Guiding Light. Sometimes we listened to Arthur Godfrey in the morning though I can't remember anything he said. At noon we listened to Ma Perkins, and then came the parade of afternoon soaps which were a half hour instead of fifteen minutes and inherently much more dramatic. My favorites were Young Widow Brown and Stella Dallas, and Lorenzo Jones and His Wife Belle.
As evening came on, the children's programs began which my older sister loved. I suppose everyone else did too since everyone listened. Jack Armstrong, the All-American Boy was maybe the first. Terry and the Pirates descended on us at some