family life – it is making me

Holy Saturday

Hands to Work, Hearts to God

There’s always an eery stillness to Holy Saturday, that day between Christ’s death and resurrection. It reminds me of the shock of grief after someone dies, when you’re aware that someone is suddenly absent, but it’s too new and fresh to be fully real. Their absence follows you like a shadow and time becomes theoretical instead of actual. Tasks of daily life become the track beneath your feet, carrying you from one task to the next, sometimes mindlessly.

On Holy Saturday there’s so much preparation that goes into an Easter celebration and feast that I have to make myself a list of what to do, otherwise I find myself feeling listless and unaware of time, like a pseudo-grief. This Holy Saturday, I find myself thinking of the myrrh-bearers, the women who, in their shock and grief, gathered oils and ointments to bring to the tomb. It must have been strangely comforting to clean his wounds and wrap his body in fragrant linen.

Just this past year, a dear friend of mine passed away quite suddenly. It was traumatic for her husband and children, and though they were with her in those last moments, there wasn’t much of a goodbye, not much opportunity for closure. The days that followed were beautiful: they prepared a pine coffin by writing notes along the inside and lined it with fabric and herbs. They prepared her body themselves and laid her to rest. They wept as they knelt in the dirt and planted flowers to adorn the final place of their mother’s body. They comforted her with song, drank in her death with their senses, then mourned with their tears and sweat.

As I learn more about trauma, I am more and more amazed at how God made us, how our body, mind, and spirit are intimately connected and affect one another, both for good and for ill. With strong emotions, especially grief and terror—which the disciples and women assuredly felt astutely on Holy Saturday—putting our hands to work and hearts to God is a way to actively pray and process.

In some small way, preparing food and filling Easter baskets so my family can enter into the joy and rest of Easter Sunday is prayerful and contemplative. There have been and will be greater moments when acts of service are less delightful and more important. The adult children of my friend who passed away had also, countless times before, completed acts of service with their mother in both joyful and difficult times. In the discipline of putting their hands to work and hearts to God, they were able to do what needed to be done with devotion and love when tragedy shocked them. Just so, the women who rose up and put their grieving hands to work in their darkest moment had done it thousands of times before in little ways when there was less at stake, and so were prepared to do something as difficult and powerful as prepare God for the grave.

Palm Sunday; a.k.a., sweaty-palms Sunday

Well, we did it. We parents survived a mammoth Lenten sacrifice: the Palm Sunday liturgy. Which, in the eyes of children, is tiresomely long and full of disappointment as they are told continuously that no, the palm branches are not for sword fighting your brother or tickling the person in front of us. And let’s face it, twisting a palm branch into a cross is one of the great Catholic mysteries.

It has gotten much easier over the years. Most of my children aren’t children anymore, and this year our toddler fell asleep during the penitential rite and didn’t wake up until communion, praise be Jesus. But hearing the musical cries and screams of children throughout the sanctuary reminded me of those sweaty Triduum liturgies when you have to trust that grace is real and somehow the prayers are passing through your ear canals and sticking somewhere in your consciousness.

If I could go back and give the younger-mom-me advice about wrangling children in Mass, I would say, “Girl, chill the eff out.” At the time, I thought I was teaching my children manners by insisting they sit still, kneel and stand when appropriate, remain mostly quiet. But looking back, I think it was 10% an attempt at parenting, but 90% a worry about being judged by others. It took several years to relax. Gradually, my husband and I both got used to spending time in the foyer or on the steps of the church, sometimes for most of the Mass. And even more gradually than that, we got used to not being angry the whole time we were in the foyer or on the steps of the church. We tried a rewards system, bribing, lecturing—and none of it worked. If anything, it made our kids loathe Mass. Eventually, we concluded that we would rather our kids wiggle and squirm, and come away with a give-or-take opinion about Mass, than hate it because they were constantly in trouble for just being a child.

Things settle. They figure out how to sit through Mass. And the younger ones learn from the older ones.

It was beautiful to hear the musical cries and screams of children in Mass today. I just kept thinking, “I feel ya kiddo. This is a long and strenuous Gospel to sit through.” It was also a rare year where I could close my eyes and—imagine this—pray and meditate along with the Passion. I’ve learned to treasure and appreciate those Masses, as they are few and far between.

As my children keep growing older (they do that), I am realizing that Mass will become contemplative for me once again. That time is coming. And while I’m looking forward to that, a part of me will mourn those crazy, sweaty Triduum liturgies with over-tired, hungry, half-crazed toddlers. I promise now, that when that day comes, I will look at a pair of young, frustrated parents and smile. I might even envy them. A little bit.

Pas de Deux

When I was 13, I saw The Nutcracker ballet for the first time. It wasn’t my family’s style to go to the ballet, or symphony or theater, but my best friend and her mom had invited my mom and I along. I went in cold without any knowledge of the music or story, and I probably thought I was too cool for it or something, fairies and tutus and such. But the anticipation alone was excitement enough. The whole experience of dressing up, handing over our tickets, finding a seat through the crowd, a live orchestra– all of it was new and exhilarating. I felt immediately elevated; I felt wealthier, smarter, more beautiful; I felt like a classy broad.

As soon as the orchestra played the first several measures and the curtains swept back, I was gone. By thirteen, I had quickly buried my love of fairytales and sense of wonder in favor of a more enlightened and cynical worldview, but The Nutcracker called my bluff. I don’t even know if it was critically good, but I will never know because I was in love with all of it: the costumes, the narrative, the story-telling through dance– all of it was magical. But the moment that transported me was the Pas de Deux. I was sure I had never heard any music so ethereal. I was swept away with its romance and grandeur. When we got home, I picked out the melody on the piano, and later when I received the soundtrack as a Christmas gift, I listened to it over and over again. It was like getting wrapped in a tender whirlwind and lifted off the ground. I regularly listened to that album, just as regularly as Smashing Pumpkins’ Siamese Dream and Tori Amos’s Little Earthquakes.

It wasn’t until I had children that I began to explore more of Tchaikovsky’s work. I excitedly introduced my little girls to Disney’s Sleeping Beauty, which had been my absolute favorite animated movie as a child, only to realize that Disney had borrowed Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty ballet as its score. Watching that movie as an adult was like finding the source of my own aesthetic: the stylized art inspired by medieval tapestry, the sharply angled faces of the heroes and heroines, the woodland cottage and stately castles, and the score that carried it all on a current through peril and triumph. This was the foundation of beauty for me.

I was thrilled to introduce my children to Tchaikovsky, and while the ballet is still expensive, many ballets are available on disc, which is how we watch The Nutcracker every year, and how we’ve all seen Sleeping Beauty and Swan Lake. I have loved watching it capture their imagination as they bound about the room copying the dances and memorizing the melodies, and then when they’re older, discussing themes, motifs, and artistic choices. It renews the wonder for me. Gradually, I take one child at a time to the ballet (or live theater) as we can afford it so they can experience the heightened anticipation of a performance, and possibly be transported by a song.

Even now, thirty years later, something happens to me when I listen to the Pas de Deux, like the invisible string that connects me to my Creator pulls taut and draws my attention. I’ve thought a lot about why. I think it captures the overwhelming feeling of longing and desire, and the exclusivity of romance when the world passes away and the only other body you’re aware of is that of your lover. There’s safety, protection, and strength in its exclusivity and one-ness. The continuous, climbing scales within the song that ascend and descend capture the moments of anticipation, of joy and delight, at times of sorrow, and ultimate ecstasy of love. The grandeur of the song– and the moment in the ballet– captures the pursuit of God the Lover for us, and the full realization of our purpose in communing fully with Him.

Going to the ballet was transformative. It opened up a whole new arena of visual and musical storytelling, of beauty incarnate in the human form. There is a cathedral-like quality in the ballet, a sacramentality where conceptual beauty meets the human form and music tells a story to draw our attention elsewhere, not to escape, but to connect more fully with our humanity.

Gaude, Gaude; Pivot, Pivot

Usually, St. Nicholas’s feast day is a big deal in our home. Usually, we open stockings before breakfast. Usually, these stockings have the traditional chocolate coins, clementines, maybe a small gift or two, and a striped candy cane. Usually, we feast on a supper of Greek roast, mashed potatoes, and broiled vegetables. Usually, we enjoy delicious gingerbread for dessert. Usually, we read The Miracle of St. Nicholas, and I do the voices. Usually, it’s magical.

But this year was different.

This year, for the first time, I have three teenagers in away-school, as opposed to home-school. Sure, they come home every night, but they’re tired and people-saturated, and after a quick debriefing, they retreat and complete homework. They’re also in band and theater and board game club and sports and they have a peer group that appropriately takes up a lot of their social energy. AND they have to GO TO SCHOOL on the feast of St. Nicholas.

With younger children still at home– and it’s already been hard for them to adjust to a quieter house with their siblings away– I refused to let these Advent feasts pass by. We had a family meeting, we rearranged expectations, we set the date for our St. Nicholas celebration this weekend. I shall not be moved! Family feasting shall prevail!

But… (sigh)

I forgot that three of my children were going to birthday parties, and one had closing night of the high school play which was followed by a cast party, and inevitably, we ate Greek roast and gingerbread in shifts. Lame.

But… (sigh)

I asked for this. My teenagers were depressed a year ago, desperately wanting more of a community, hungry for peer affirmation, bored with home-schooling. And around this time last year, I started pleading with God to do something: make me ready to do whatever I need to do to help them through these difficult years, open my ears, move mountains, part waters, heal their wounded hearts.

Remember that scene in Friends when they’re moving the new couch up a flight of narrow stairs and Ross keeps shouting, “PIVOT! PIVOT!” That is the secret sauce to parenting that no one ever tells you. You never arrive. You never do it perfectly. People change, times change, communities change, and so we PIVOT-PIVOT. And sometimes that damn couch is never going to get through the narrow stairway. I think in this new age of parenting I’m going to have to let go of a lot of traditions or expectations I hold onto which I love in exchange for something that looks different but might just be better.

It happens to be Gaudete weekend, the third weekend of Advent, the rose candle, the we’re-almost-there-so-rejoice Sunday. This St. Nicholas feast wasn’t quite what I wanted it to be, but damn, I’m so happy. My kids are busy! Dudes, they are going to birthday parties! In an alternate version of my life, I could have easily resented today with all its driving around and having all of us in different places, but my kids are feasting socially with wonderful peers. They are becoming more confident in who they are through performance and music and sports and peer affirmation. I am rejoicing.

glances

Since I last wrote, one daughter received her first Holy Communion, three children received the Sacrament of Confirmation, I started post-trauma therapy, sold and packed a house, caravanned 2600 miles with a truck of stuff and van of people, and a dear friend passed away. Since school started, half of us have been sick with something, including the toddler (=no sleep for my husband and I). We’ve also been delightfully busy with fun and wonderful things to do: a musical, a Shakespeare play, Trail Life, swing dancing, school dances, homework, parties. Between festivities and illness and grief and trauma work and budding new relationships and new EVERYTHING… I’m tired y’all.

There’s good weariness, like after a satisfying workout or Christmas shopping. And this is for sure a good weariness. This big move (which I will talk about more later) has been fruitful. It’s just a lot. I feel like we built a new house very quickly and now the foundation has to settle.

Through therapy and by necessity through the fast-forward events of this past year, I’m trying to chill spiritually. Not laziness, but less anxiety. The first day of this year, I had a three-hour Confession-session, one of the juicy fruits of which was realizing how much I have felt I needed to EARN love. (thud) I needed to relax and enter into God’s unsolicited love for me. And this year has offered ample time to do so. All I do is pray on the run. St. Thérèse called it “ejaculatory prayer” which, while jarring to our modern ear, is a mother’s arsenal. And if prayer is– also St. Thérèse– a “glance toward Heaven”, then (sigh) that’s all I got right now.

I know it’s not a form of life-sustaining prayer. The relationship has to be there, has to strengthen and grow through the sacraments, contemplative prayer, adoration, Scripture, etc. And I’m looking forward to entering into another period like that. But right now, God is balancing me on this highwire. There’s a lot less of me, and a whole lotta Him. And honestly, it’s nice to know that when I let go, He will catch and carry me.

About five years into motherhood, I discovered the Benedictine motto “ora et labora”– pray and work– and it’s been my lifeline ever since. I’ve always had the phrase near at hand to remind me of how to anchor my vocation. I just painted it on the hood over the stove in our new house. It feels a little more like home now. And it’s a reminder that praying in weariness, little glances towards Heaven, is about resting in God’s unsolicited love, offering the little I have, receiving a hundredfold.

lap of luxury

My family sat down to watch All Creatures Great and Small last night, the new series on PBS starring Nicholas Ralph and Samuel West (shout out: West played Prince Caspian in the old-school BBC Narnia series, oh yeah). It’s a show that my teens as well as my younger kids can appreciate, and it’s been rare lately to find a show we can all enjoy together on our traditional movie night.

In the episode, there’s a scene where the housekeeper, Audrey, has just seen the men out the door. The 60 seconds which follow are an indulgent fantasy: Audrey sits down on the couch in front of a fire. She pauses there, smiling at the golden retriever curled up at her feet, then gleefully opens her book (an old, lovely one, the kind that crackles when you open the front cover). And that’s it. The story moves along from there. It was delicious to watch. My mind sort of stayed there in the parlor with Audrey, wistfully thinking how luxuriant it would be to sit in a quiet room— a fire seems a bit indulgent, not necessary, but delightful nonetheless—with a good book, uninterrupted.

And that’s where I’m at in life, the kind of busy-ness where sitting in a quiet room with a book looks like the lap of luxury. I know very well that’s a near-impossibility for me at this stage in life, and to be honest, if I woke up tomorrow morning and my family surprised me with a day-alone-reading-by-the-fire, I know exactly what would happen: I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. On the rare occasion I do have a quiet morning or afternoon (so very rare, mind you), I feel almost overwhelmed by all the things that I could be doing or should be doing that I sort of freeze. If I were granted a day-alone-reading-by-the-fire by a genie, this genie would also need to clean my house, do the dishes, scrub the bathrooms, and organize my garage (and quite possibly a few other things) before I felt the freedom to sit on a couch with a book.

My mind is usually so preoccupied that I forget words. That’s right, just words. Whole nouns will escape my memory. My mind sometimes reads like a fresh mad-libs page with blanks substituting actual nouns and adjectives. Sometimes I find myself saying things like, “I need to go that place to do that thing,” or “Hey, fruit-of-my-womb, can you put that thing in the thing with the thing?” I’m lucky enough that my children and husband can, for the most part, anticipate my meaning. My head is an overstuffed sandwich with mustard oozing through the bread and the pickle sliding out the side. While sometimes I want (and do) just pause and cry, or sneak away to the dog-park for a cigarette (P.S. I don’t have a dog), I’m also overstuffed-thankful for my life. Like, really. I love hanging out with my family.

I recognize that sometime in the not-too-far-future, I will be home alone, and I will sit on a couch with a book, or rather a stack of books that I’ve been meaning to read for decades. I won’t be as put together as Audrey from All Creatures Great and Small; instead of a wool skirt, stockings, and cardigan, I’ll be wearing the synthetic soft elastic clothes of a modern and confident middle-aged woman. Instead of a dog, there may be a cat or two. And I’ll probably sigh—even for just a moment—as I remember bygone days when my home was a madhouse.

crawling out of this cave

Well, hello there.

It’s been a long time. Too long. But today, the Feast of the Visitation, marks the 20^th anniversary of my baptism, confirmation, and reception into the Catholic Church. A good day to start writing again.

It’ll be fairly easy to explain why I haven’t written much in the past year, but it will take some time. It will take some time because I am currently caring for a newborn. You heard me right.

So bear with me as I catch you up, most likely over several posts. And in the meantime I will also update my profile to reflect that I am now a mother of seven children. To quote Maria vonTrapp in Sound of Music, “Seven?!!” Yes.

Glory be!

a participating parent

Recently, I went to “Parent Participation” day at my daughter’s dance studio. It was, as the title suggests, an opportunity for parents to go through each stage of dance rehearsal with their student. I’m guessing the goal is for us parents to see all the hard work our children put into dance, maybe see how great the teachers are and how much fun they all have—which insures we keep pouring money into this extra-curricular machine. But I knew it would be humiliating. I was a dancer—and a mediocre one at best—about 20 years ago. But my daughter—Viva, as I call her here—was so excited about it, begged me to come, so I swallowed my pride and agreed.

When we arrived, the receptionist handed me a goody-bag of water, aspirin, and an ice pack. Very funny, guys. As I stood awkwardly in the room in my mom-yoga pants and Star Wars t-shirt, I quickly tied my hoodie around my waist to hide my mom-rolls. I kept expecting Viva to be embarrassed that I was there, but she was standing close, holding my hand, and beaming. Her confidence made me feel confident—for the first time in our relationship, our roles had reversed. The instructor turned the lights off, turned on some mood-music, and we laid on the floor ready to stretch. I wanted to crack a joke about my creaky back, but when I looked over at Viva, her eyes were closed, she was breathing deeply, 100% in the moment. She was in her element, more relaxed as an awake person than I had ever seen her. It was an incredible parenting moment—you know those moments when you see your child as a truly separate entity, becoming a unique person all of their own—and there was Viva, truly herself.

My daughter, this daughter, is the token extrovert in our family. I don’t know how it goes for other moms who homeschool extroverts, but for me it’s tricky and laced with guilt as I wonder how to feed the people-monster in her heart when I personally find extended social experiences exhausting. I’ve never read that book about love languages, but from what I’ve heard, Viva’s would be time-spent together. She’s right smack in the middle of six kids and doesn’t get the attention she would love. I hug her a lot, but she needs more sit-down-and-talk time for sure. And this seemed the perfect opportunity to spend time with her—on her turf, at her pace. As I fumbled and bumbled through the dance moves, I thought she would be embarrassed, but she wasn’t. To see her joy made me realize I need to make more of an effort to do things she likes to do—and these aren’t elaborate things, but simple stuff like go to Starbucks and share some sous vide bites, watch a girly movie, cook and bake together, garden together.

Each of my children has, in a unique way, challenged my comfort level. Each one has drawn me out, stretched me, sharpened me— sometimes with sparks. It’s one of the great mysteries and gifts of parenting. But it requires a degree of listening and perceptiveness, which is difficult when life gets busy. Viva reminded me it’s good to participate— to get down on the ground, roll around a little, play and relax, be a fool for love. It made me ready to listen.

keep calm and feast on

As a kid, December 26 was one of the saddest days of the year. The giddy anticipation of post-Thanksgiving yuletide culminated in the biggest day of the year– Christmas, December 25. It was a riotous day of feasting and tearing open presents and driving from one family’s house to the next. But on December 26 it was all over. By New Year’s the Christmas décor was coming down. At that point, school loomed ahead and January was usually wet, cold and dreary where I lived.

Imagine my delight at discovering that Christmas is officially 12 days (and, what do you know, the song “The 12 Days of Christmas” was not just endless jibberish made up by drunken peasants), and can be justifiably stretched to the feast of the Baptism (the Sunday after Epiphany) and even the Presentation (February 2). Maybe it’s the naughty inner child in me who enjoys defiance, but I like that our Christmas tree still lights up the front window long after people have been chucking their trees to the side of the road. When our kids were all little, it was easy to ignore that the world had moved on to new-year resolutions and Valentine’s candy (what’s up with that??) and keep the grace of Christmas present in the home. This year was the first year that I felt a little tug-of-war with life.

We always cap off the 12 days with an Epiphany feast. We have three movable Wisemen figures that, since Christmas Eve, have been moving around the house and arrive at the stable on January 6. We sing, we feast, it’s great. But this year the Epiphany was on a Monday. We had to slip in our family feast between one child returning from the orthodontist, and another child heading to an audition. In the morning while I wondered how I was going to home school my little ones and get this midday dinner prepared, I thought, Maybe I shouldn’t force this. I don’t want my kids to associate feast days as fun-datory family time. As I was pondering this, my 9-year-old jumped in and excitedly offered to help. It was a little hurried, a little rushed, but still a lovely time. And as I watched our three-year-old and four-year-old process with the Wisemen to the stable, I remembered how important it is to keep feasting so they can experience the liturgical year the way our older kids have. My older kids, even though their own lives are heavily on their minds, were present and took part.

As my kids grow up and begin their own lives in a world that runs on its own time, I want them to think of the Christmas season as it was meant to be, and to ease into January with joy, hope, and peace.

Children in Mass

or, 400 years in Purgatory

There’s a brief window of life—usually in young adulthood while wrestling with purpose and vocation—when one prays more frequently, which leads to an abundance of grace and consolations; silence is golden and Mass is a retreat, even if the music is distractingly off-key or the preaching is dull. Finding a moment to sit in the quiet still of a dark sanctuary is relatively easy to come by, and it’s easy to start fancying yourself a regular contemplative, maybe even a saint-in-the-works. If you are in that stage of life right now, cherish it, but understand with a degree of humility that it’s a gift, a feast of perceptible grace before life gets real. Because, let me tell you, it won’t last.

There comes a time in a person’s life when Mass feels like a stallion-training pen and all wonderful, beautiful, contemplative thoughts that may have flooded the mind and heart during Mass previously are at once snuffed out with a merciless puff. And that merciless puff is called a toddler. Or two or three of them.

If you are in that particular stage of life, when Mass is a purgatory of tantrums, potty-trips, flying plastic toys, a mess of bodily functions (breast milk leakage, peeing, blow-out diapers, vomit, runny noses, take your pick), then I have three things to tell you: 1) I am/have been there, 2) this too shall pass, and 3) until it does, I humbly offer the following.

First of all, I am/have been there; I GET IT

Exactly when this reality hits parents varies, but for me it hit right away with our first. Trying to nurse in a wooden pew is tricky; equally tricky is trying to mix a bottle of formula. It’s not impossible, but it effectively takes your mind off of Mass for sure. But by the time your child is a toddler, forget it. You’re basically wrestling and contorting throughout Mass, if you’re lucky enough to stay in the pew, though a lot of time is spent in the foyer or outside or in the germ-infested cry rooms which are really named for crying mothers while children feel at last free to be as crazy as they like (oh, how I loathe cry rooms—can you tell?). If you’ve decided to brave it in the pew (or if you’re landlocked and forced to stay), it’s a sweaty mess of wrangling arms and legs, and a constant inner struggle of how-and-should-I-discipline-my-child-with-so-many-witnesses, convinced the furrowed brows are meant for you and certain people are wondering how mother nature ever allowed you to conceive a child, unworthy as you are. It’s torture.

Then you get home, everyone’s hungry and tired, all the energy for the day having been spent getting to and through Mass. Not so Sabbath-y after all, and definitely void of any contemplative prayer.

This, too, shall pass

Really, it truly does. This era of the migraine Mass will end eventually. I remember sitting in Mass with scrawly children and looking over to an opposite pew where a family of ten sat almost perfectly. Instead of a beacon of light, they were the most discouraging thing ever to see because it made me wonder what I was getting wrong. But now that’s us—our family of eight sits almost without incident through Mass (though, we still have our turn of stepping out with the little ones when needed). I think it’s a positive form of peer pressure. The little ones watch and follow the older ones. There’s an unspoken oh-this-is-what-we-do understanding, which is why it’s good for little ones to sit in Mass. Eventually they get it. So gird your loins and buck up, this is only temporary!

And until it is over, here is what I humbly offer to (hopefully) help you in the interim:

In stressful situations like Mass, it seems like our children are the ones making us miserable, but in reality we are the ones who make ourselves miserable. A two-year-old is just being a two-year-old. Sometimes I have a hard time paying attention in Mass in the best of circumstances, so I imagine for a child it’s quite a challenge. We have tried bringing church-related books or small toys to Mass, though for our kids that often becomes its own distraction. But maybe it’ll work for your kids. We found the best solution was sitting close to the front, or having our littlest ones sit at the end of the pew near the aisle so they could actually see what was going on. It’s not fool-proof. If a child is tired, hungry, has to go to the bathroom, or just feels especially naughty that day then nothing works, and you resign yourself to pacing the back.

If that happens, try not to get frustrated. Often times the source of my frustration was what people were thinking of me, how they must be thinking that I couldn’t control my child. If that’s a worry for you too, remember that people are not thinking that. And if they are, they have the problem, not you. The Church, taking a nod from God Himself (“Go forth and multiply”, “Let the little ones come to me”), encourages us to have children so the body of Christ should not be disturbed by hearing and seeing them at Mass. They are the future of the Church, so let them squirm and wiggle while they learn to love Jesus in the Mass. As they get older, talk them through what’s happening, point out the tabernacle, the altar, etc. And if a neighboring adult hears you, don’t worry—they might be learning something too.

To be sure, sometimes I was legitimately frustrated with my child because there are days when it was good old-fashioned belligerence on their part. As they get older, there were consequences for bad behavior in Mass. If they kept lying down (and we ascertained that they had slept and were not sick) then they had to lay down in their rooms for a while instead of having free time after Mass, which they did not like. Obviously you as the parent will make the best call. But associating Mass with a lot of restriction and punishment is, in the end, not the best attraction to Mass.

The next time you find yourself growing frustrated that you have to pace in the back with a misbehaving or tantruming child, or you’ve been exiled to the loathsome cry room, or you’re spending much of Mass waiting in the bathroom for your child, remember that you are being formed spiritually by the very act of willful, purposeful parenting. Choosing to care for your child even when you might rather sit and listen to the homily, or spend some silent moments in prayer, is an act of love, a discipline that will form your heart and please our Lord. It also means we have to purposely set aside time in the day for quiet prayer with God, even if it’s brief. But Mass, in the end, is not about what we’re doing. We don’t do anything in Mass that deserves His Body and Blood. It’s a gift. We have a responsibility to receive it worthily, with a clear conscience, in reverence and thanksgiving, but our participation in Mass doesn’t make us worthy. If you’re distracted during Mass by the act of parenting your child, you are fulfilling your vocation, you’re obedient to God’s call in your life. Try to be ok with that.

And if you don’t have children or yours are grown, please be kind and patient with those who do. An encouraging word is powerful. There have been several older women in my life who smile at me while I wrestle an escaping toddler back into the pew, and that little recognition means a lot in a stressful moment. In the reverse, I’ve had dirty looks from disgruntled Mass-goers. At first I felt humiliated, but now I know better. It helps to remember even the Apostles shoe’d the children away and Jesus corrected them: “Let the children come to me, for to such belongs the kingdom of God.”