J.M.J.
We are headed to Mass, and inwardly, I am a little
anxious. I was able to get to Confession
last week, but it was after Mass. It has
been months since I received the Eucharist.
I was weary. Empty. I needed spiritual strength. “Please Lord, let it be this week.”
After our 2-hour drive, we finally arrive. Harried and hurried, missals in hand, veils
on heads or ties straightened, some make a beeline for the Confessional while others
head into Mass which has just begun. I
carry Brigid down the hallway as she wildly flails her arms in excitement. “Jejus!
Jejus! Our Laaaaaady!” she shrieks
at the top of her lungs.
“Lord help me,” I mutter, “I will be missing You again.” Armed with my book, Mother Love, I
begin praying the Mass as I head to the cryroom.
The priest goes up to
the altar: Jesus ascends the Mount of Olives with His disciples. “O my Jesus, Thou dost ascend the Mount of
Olives, to begin Thy sufferings for us!...”
Thankfully, I am able to finish this first prayer. Excellent!
It will be a fruitful Mass!
I enter the cryroom, already occupied by another mother
quietly nursing her baby and watching Mass on the TV screen. My daughter, always the life of the party,
immediately changes this calm to chaos.
She pulls out some books off the shelf.
OK, she pulls down ALL the books from the shelf, and proceeds to explain
to anyone in earshot that every Saint is either Jejus or Our Laaaaaady.
Unable to follow the rest of the prayers associated with
each portion of the Mass, I attempt to at least read the titles and must add my
own quick prayers instead of the beautiful ones offered in my little book.
The priest prays at the
foot of the altar: Jesus agonizes in prayer and sweats blood.
Dear Lord, You knew the sufferings that were to come. And I can tell, this Sunday will most likely
be like last week. And the week
before. Help me resign myself to Your
will, not mine, this Sunday afternoon.
Brigid occasionally does the Sign of the Cross. “Fa Son, Fa Son, Fa Son. Aaaaaamen….”
Then jumps up, heads to the holy card basket. And rips St. Anthony in 2.
OK, no way I am even going to get quick prayers at this rate. Just the titles…
The priest returns to the
altar: The enemies of Jesus take Him prisoner.
I watch as the other mother serenely leaves the room,
leaving Brigid and me alone. Glancing at
the cryroom door, I am feeling rather like a prisoner myself. And so is
Brigid. She bolts out the door before the
woman could get the door closed and heads full speed down the hallway towards ‘the
donut room’.
Denied donuts, she rebels.
Loudly. I take her out to the van
for about 10 minutes. We sing. We take a lap around the parking lot, and I
try to bring her back inside. She
protests. But I have to at least try to get close to the Mass, right? So I drag her back to the cryroom and past
other parents with better behaved children who were able to actually partially
participate in Mass as they quietly instructed their little ones in proper Mass
etiquette. Some children, mouths agape,
watch me as I march by them, carrying Brigid in a football hold. And only the Good God knows what the parents are
thinking.
What did I miss? I see on the screen that everyone was
already standing for the Gospel. I pick up my book, which I had violently
tossed aside when Brigid made her escape.
The priest says the
Kyrie, the Gloria, the epistle and Gospel: Jesus is led before Annas, Ciaphas,
Pilate, and Herod.
Yup. Been there, done
that, Lord. Just now.
The sound system only picks up what the priest says when he
reads the Epistle and Gospel in English, and the homily. Brigid has respect for his booming male voice
and settles down to a simmer for awhile, allowing me to hear but still kept me
too distracted to really have a chance to understand.
2 mothers enter the cryroom at about this time which, to me,
felt like a mixed blessing. Maybe she
will play quietly with the toddler?
The priest returns to the
middle of the altar and says the Credo: Jesus, in the white robe of derision,
is led back to Pilate.
Nope.
The priest uncovers the
Chalice and offers the Host: Jesus is stripped and scourged.
Brigid decides sharing is a skill she does not yet have to
master. And lets the toddler know. Loudly.
The priest raises the wine
and water as an Offering: Jesus is shown to the people as a mock-king.
I try to distract her.
“Let’s say some prayers,“ I whisper loudly. “Sign of the Cross?”
See? See? I can have a good child too! Or not…
The priest washes his
hands: Jesus is condemned to the death on the Cross.
The mothers and their children leave us, deciding wrestling
their own little ones is easier without the added distraction of the old lady
and the hyper baby in the cryroom.
At the Preface and the
Sanctus: Jesus carries His Cross and sinks three times under its weight.
Shoes on. Shoes
off. Shoes on. Shoes off.
Throw books. And peek-a-boo at
full volume. I am on my knees. Exhausted.
The priest raises his
hands at the beginning of the Canon: The executioners tear Jesus’ garments from
His wounded shoulders.
Brigid climbs up me – her human jungle gym. I hold her, hugging her, feeling love, and a
lump in my throat. She whips my veil off
my head and starts messing my hair.
The priest prays for
those present and for those absent: Jesus sympathizes with the sorrow of His
faithful followers.
Thank you, Father. I
guess I fall under both of those categories.
And now we prepare for the highest point of the Mass…
The priest makes the Sign
of the Cross 5 times over the Host and Chalice: Jesus is nailed to the Cross.
Miraculously, Brigid is quietly looking at a book next to
me. I am able to meditate a moment on the
associated prayers.
The priest utters the words
of Consecration over the Host and raises it on high for the faithful to adore: Jesus
is raised on the Cross and hangs between heaven and earth.
My Lord and my God! I
give you this moment. For 90 seconds I
can focus on You – we are alone in here, she can’t really get into too much
trouble. Brigid’s Guardian Angel, watch
her. My Lord, be with me. See me at the foot of Your Cross as the Consecration
begins…
A soft popping noise.
I resist the urge to glance at Brigid.
My eyes riveted on the screen. This
moment is for You, Lord. Not Brigid.
The priest utters the words
of Consecration over the wine in the Chalice: The blood of Jesus flows
profusely to the earth
And the canister of formula dumps onto the carpet as a
father comes in to change his baby’s diaper.
Brigid bolts. And I utter a
blasphemous phrase through clenched teeth as I chase her down the hallway once
again. Horrified. I am beside myself over the sin I just
committed.
We go outside to the van. I am crying.
“You K? Mama?” she pats my
shoulder, imitating how I tend to one of my children if they get hurt. “K?” I hug her.
I miss a lot of the rest of the Mass. We finally reenter the church, hand in hand,
and return to the scene of the crime. The
spilled formula, now covered with a blanket, hides my shame.
The priest covers the
Chalice: The tomb of Jesus is closed.
I try to figure out how to make it right.
The priest leaves the altar:
The friends of Jesus, after a last sad and loving glance at His tomb, return to
their homes.
I anxiously wait just outside the cryroom door for my
husband. He comes out, takes one look at
me and quickly takes Brigid from my arms.
“What happened?!”
Unable to say anything to him, I head to the supply closet
and quickly vacuum up the powder and head down the hallway to Father’s office where
the Confessional is. “Bless me Father,
for I have sinned!” I sobbed, startling the poor man.
I confessed the blasphemous phrase I uttered at the
Consecration. And he counseled me: “You
feel as though you never have the frame of mind to attend Mass with your heart,
and unworthy to receive Him because of it.
I assure you that He knows very well what your situation is. You do the best you can. Offer it all to Him. Keep close to those meditations. Find your comfort in joining your sufferings
with His and know that this is how you are called to participate in Mass at
this time in your life.” He said many
more things which I will treasure in my heart and will recall frequently as I participate
in future cryroom Masses.
As I left Father’s office, Brigid came running up to me, all
smiles and bubbles. “Mama!” she called and
I scooped her up.
And the words "Ite, missa est," came to mind.
