Seeing Mass

Yesterday, our usual near-the-front-but-not-at-front spot in church was occupied, so rather than skulk to the back where we were sure to have an extra-antsy 5-year-old, we went to the front. 

And what a great Mass it was. I was able to focus and pay much better attention to the beautiful sacrifice that was unfolding before me, fixing my eyes on the cross, listening to the homily, kneeling, praying. I needed to feel more connected to Jesus. I have been having trouble clearing my mind to spend time with Him.  

We sent the two babies to the nursery, otherwise this would not have been possible. It was Anthony's first time, and Katie is an old pro, and while I miss them a little at first, I am beyond thankful for the nursery. I know there are a host of "babies in church" advocates, and if you can keep your babe silent/contained, or you joyfully embrace the cross of missing half of Mass because you are pacing the narthex with a fussy baby or chasing your child outside the church, that is awesome. 

But I am a Martha in so many other areas of life, that I want to be a Mary in Mass. I want to sit at the feet of Jesus and listen. Be there. Without worrying about a runaway toddler or a hungry baby. I worry about enough things as I wring my hands and pray for the safety and protection of my loves and give God all my daily corporal and spiritual concerns.

You know how at times it's good to leave everything behind and go on a weekend retreat? Leaving the kids in the nursery during Mass is as close as I'll get to a retreat for a while. And I'm ok with that for this season of my life. God finds ways to draw me to Him anyway. Like guiding us to the front pew of the church where I could see everything. 

I like watching people take communion. It's such a beautiful expression of faith, approached in many different ways and uniquely experienced by each person. The family walking up together, nudging a child to cross her arms and bow at the right time, receiving the Body of Christ together (that's us). The teenager, hastily placing the host in his mouth, making the sign of the cross, and heading back to his pew with a serious, yet calm demeanor. The woman who steps to the side, gazing at the cross, and kisses the host before placing it on her tongue. The man who limps up the aisle, a look of concern on his face, who is suddenly overcome by peace as he receives our Lord. The young girl who just made her first communion and still seems unsure of how to hold the chalice that is entirely too large for her as she drinks from it. The deacon who looks each communicant in the eye, with a twinkle, and faithfully says, "the Blood of Christ" as he holds out the transubstantiated wine (and then he whispers "Jesus loves you" in the ear of the not-old-enough child, to bless him). 

As an added bonus, we celebrated the feast day of our church's patroness, St. Clare, yesterday, so her statue was moved nearer to the altar, and I witnessed devotion to her, as people walked by: one woman looked up, paused, and smiled at her (she might have even winked); a man placed his hand on her statue and bowed his head to honor her (note that we do not worship saints--or their statues--we honor them and ask them, as friends, to intercede for us). It was all a pretty sweet thing to see. I haven't felt so connected to the Body of Christ in quite a while. This was good for my weary mommy soul.