Meatballs For Jesus

I come from a large family. Pardon. A large, Italian family. And as with all Italian families, food, all kinds of glorious food, and religion, was the glue that held us together while Grandma was still alive. My Gran, she could be described as pure sugar disguised as little old lady with an apron and top knot on her head..And she was as devout as she was a fabulous cook-there was no question about it. Dolly (as her friends called her) had often outdone herself in the kitchen area, and everyone from the milk man to the postman had a chance to benefit from all her hard work.
There was one special day though, that Gran reserved for family alone. That day, Sunday, was the day that everyone would dress in their finest clothes and march through the neighboring yards up to St. Ann's Monastery in Scranton, to fill the seats and pray for family members who had since been long gone, and for those yet to be...The air would blow through those stained glass windows,carrying with it, the sound of church bells tolling loudly above, and the smell of heavy wax candles burning silently in the grotto outside. St. Ann's was a magical place. A place of miracles they say...saved only from destruction of the mine cave-ins below by a congregation of the faithful who prayed non stop for days till the fires in the mines, and the cave-ins stopped only a block from the church grounds... My Gran loved this place, and dedicated what little of her free time she had, to the church that she had her babies baptized in and celebrated marraiges and cried at funerals alike..
But those Sundays, ahhh those glorious days, when a trip from Binghamton the night before, would mean waking up to the smell of Gran's frying meatballs, long before the birds ever sang in the light of day. Up before dawn, Dolly would have her sauce simmering, and bread baked, long before any of us rolled out of bed, still sleepy eyed and wild haired. She did this every sunday, week after week, year after year, still using a coal stove, when coal stoves had long been out of fashion. And it was all done before mass at 9am. Nary a piece of bread dipped in that sumptious gravy, nor a bite of egg could be consumed until each and everyone of us came home from what seemed like an eternity in those hard narrow pews. The funniest thing about Mass was, sitting there counting down the minutes till the quick walk home, and in between those cool breezes coming in, the smell of meatballs, a bit heavy on the garlic, could be smelled throughout the church. Was the smell coming all the way from her kitchen on Locust street? Did it cling to our clothes like raindrops in the summer, or was it that every little old lady in the front seats of the Monastery, did as my Gran did on Sunday mornings, by getting up and preparing what she liked to call her "Meatballs For Jesus" at the crack of dawn?
When I make Sunday dinner for my own family, everyone laughing and talking and enjoying each other...I remember those days around the big Mahogany table at Gran's house, chairs set shoulder to shoulder so everyone could be together...and I now realize why those Meatballs for Jesus were so special to her..