A friend of mine recently pointed out
to me that we have the best Mass stories. I'm glad they bring joy
and entertainment value to others, because every one of them was, for
me, absolutely mortifying. I am a good Catholic. Really I try. I
really really try. But, for some reason my children because
possessed by demons the moment we enter a church. I don't
understand why others don't have the pleasure of experiencing this
level of embarrassment whenever they attempt to worship Our Lord in
His house. But, here is but a sampling of my worst ever moments in
church.
I am a convert, so my Confirmation was
as an adult. Because my formation had been outside of the church's
CCD program, I knew nobody else that was being confirmed. I was not
included in the rehearsal or any other preparation for the actual
day. The morning I arrived I discovered perhaps two dozen other
candidates were teenagers, but there was one other adult. I found
comfort in that for some reason. As usual, I was the tallest, so it
was decided that I would enter at the end of the line. After we
proceeded in, I found myself at the end of a wide semi-circle in
front of the Bishop. I didn't realize that I was supposed to go
first, and the girl next to me sprang ahead to approach the Bishop
and be confirmed. In retrospect, perhaps she could have tapped me on
the shoulder and given me some signal to go, but in rehearsal I
suppose she was first. Anyway, they continued down the line of
faithful teenagers, eager and hopeful to become Soldiers of Christ.
I began to panic as they reached the end of the line. What if they
forgot me? What if I don't get confirmed today?? I decided I simply
could not let that happen. So as the last candidate left the
presence of the Bishop, I took off at a sprint, which was not easy to
do considering the height of my heels. I also did not realize just
how slippery the slate tiles could be on a cool day in the Helsinki
spring. Nor did I fully appreciate the smoothness of the soles of my
new sandals. As I attempted to stop in front of the Bishop, I
slipped. I did not go down completely, it was merely a stumble.
However, the words my body decided to expell from my mouth were
inappropriate in ANY setting, let alone in front of the BISHOP OF
FINLAND. That's right. I said, “Oh shit!” In front of
the row of candidates. In front of all the priests. In front of the
entire Catholic congregation of Helsinki. And did I mention the
Bishop was there?
After that humiliating episode, I
managed to find a husband and start a family. For a few years, Calum
decided to provide me with some more opportunities to humble myself, and I must say he
did a bang-up job. When he was still only crawling and pulling
himself up, he managed to get away from Adam and I in the front row on the north side of the church. He tried to pull
himself up by grabbing hold of the massive iron votive candle display
to the left of the altar. The priest was right in the middle of his
homily when there was a deafening almighty crash only 10 feet to his
right. I can't remember what he said, but it was what you would
expect from someone who just had the life frightened out of them.
A couple of years later, we were living
in the U.S. and I was attempting to attend regular daily Mass with a
3 year old and a toddler. Once again, Calum made history, this time
at the teeny tiny St. John's Church in Leesburg. When I say tiny, I
mean tiny. You can stand at the back and practically reach out and
touch the priest. I don't recommend that by the way. Calum was
losing his patience as 3 year olds tend to do. As the priest was
getting closer to the moment of Transubstantiation, I decided that it
was probably time for me to get him and us out of there. I stood at
the back, with my back against the door as Calum repeated, “Mummy...
Mummy... Mummy... Mummy...” I just wanted to wait until the priest
was finished. I thought to myself, “Just hang on kid, just one
more minute...” And just as the priest lifted the Host up to
Heaven, Calum shouted out, “F*cking Hell, Mummy!” I calmly
grabbed the doorknob with my hand, pushed the door open behind me,
and shuffled my Spawn of Satan out there as quickly as I could.
I have only one episode concerning Ali
that comes to mind. I used to lector at a nearby parish on Saturday
mornings. Again, this is during the daily Mass phase, so Ali was
probably not yet two. My husband decided that he would like to start
attending Mass on Saturdays as well, so why didn't we all go! It
seemed like a good idea at the time. Well, when it was time for me
to approach the lectern and deliver the readings, Ali decided he was having none
of it. I tried to ignore him, but as I was reading his screams got
louder and louder and louder. He was still non-verbal, so his
primary mode of communication was an ear-piercing shriek that could
crack stained glass windows. Adam was suffering with some sort of
injury to his arm, so he had his arm in a sling and was struggling to
figure out how to handle the situation. It took him several minutes
to drag Ali out of the church with his one good arm. I received a
call a couple of days later that the church had received so many
complaints after that Mass that I was asked to no longer bring my
children with me when I lectored.
Once Finlay was born and we were
juggling three young boys at Sunday Mass, every week was a challenge.
We would tag team, taking turns pulling this or that boy outside for
a break. Or once I even dragged Finlay out, threw him into the car
(quite literally... threw), locked the door, found a bench and cried.
One Christmas Eve Mass, I was outside trying to calm down a
shrieking Ali, while Adam had a squirming unhappy Finlay in his arms.
He went to sit down on the seat that he SWORE was RIGHT THERE, and
misjudged. He ended up sprawled on the floor with a screaming baby.
But, one of the best Christmas Eve Mass experiences was last year.
We had decided to attend Mass at the new humungous St. John's in
Leesburg. I know. I should have known better. Me and St. John
don't get along apparently. I had torn a tendon in my left big toe
and was confined to a horribly massive clunky black orthopedic boot
for three weeks. My toe was extremely sensitive, but thanks to the
boot I was able to get around and do things. So we found ourselves
at the back of the church, as always. The kids were miserable and
complaining and Calum was being especially sassy. Tension was
building and Adam and I were both growing more and more frustrated.
I was sitting in a chair when Finlay decided to take a flying leap
and land on my toe. The injured one. The one that hurt just by looking
at it. I screamed, and for reasons I can't explain, the phrase “Oh my f*cking
God!” escaped my lips. Much too loudly. Adam looked at me somberly, picked up the coats, grabbed
Calum's and Ali's hands and quietly walked out of the church. I
followed, my head hanging in shame.
We have reached a new place now.
Finlay goes to my mom's on a Sunday morning, so I can go to church with only
Calum and Ali. They are 9 and 7 now, so Mass is actually quite
enjoyable. We sit INSIDE, which is a luxury, I tell you. I am able
to listen to the readings, sing along to the hymns, and actually hear
the Homily. It's wonderful. Last week, however, Calum decided to
spice things up a bit. The choir at our Church likes to sing an
extra song after Communion. They seem to really get excited about
it, and it's usually very enjoyable to listen to. Well, to us
adults. My boys are counting the minutes at this point, and have
usually lost their composure. Calum might decide to start poking Ali
or Ali might decide to lay down on the floor and stretch out in
exhaustion. Last week Calum and Ali were just about managing to
control themselves when the two women who were sharing a duet hit
an impressively high note. They really nailed it. I was impressed,
anyway. Calum, on the other hand, decided to shout out, “What the
CRAP was THAT?!” I gave him a look that assured him of a slow-and-painful-death as soon as we got home. The
boy simply does NOT know how to whisper. Or keep his thoughts to
himself.
So that just about sums up the
highlights of our church-going experiences. I so envy families with
well-behaved children who manage to control themselves during the
entirety of Mass. Now that we sit inside I get to watch them, and I
continue to be amazed. I don't know what they do differently, I
honestly don't. I have been asked to leave so many churches. I have
been banned from daily Mass. I have been called by a priest to talk
about one child's behavior at church. I have had to stop lectoring as
a result of another child's behavior. Maybe this does happen to everyone,
and I'm just paranoid. Or maybe Satan has a thing for red-heads.
Whatever it is, I shall keep on attending Mass and suffering
embarassment. They seem to go hand in hand for me, actually. And
please accept my sincere apology in advance for our behavior. This
is just how we roll.