resistance is futile

Yesterday my little loves and I attended mass together after a few weeks absence.  I’d been traveling, they’d had sleepovers.  You know.  Life.  My oldest seemed surly the first few minutes in the pew, and her sister absolutely hates when she does this.  She’ll try to squeeze affection from her with nuzzling and hand holding, which makes my almost teenager cringe even more.  This time it was biggest love’s unintended but grumpy i hate you whispered on the way into the car because she hadn’t brushed her hair yet and so lost the front seat that sent my littlest smothering for her reassurance.  Eventually, though, my oldest relents and soon enough they’ve got arms wrapped around each other and for all three of us, the rest of mass becomes a 60 minute hug fest.  We do love this time together, and yesterday was clear we have missed it!

At one point, I can’t recall when, maybe it was during the responsorial psalm, I don’t know . . . but I whispered into my littlest love’s ear that this was happiness.  Happiness?  she said.  What do you mean?  “Well.  We’re together here at church.  Isn’t it nice to be together here . . . celebrating the Eucharist and the joy we receive?  You look so happy and snuggly.”  She sends me a sideways glance and says, happiness tastes funky.

She’s always thought Jesus tastes bland.  Yucky.  Funky.  She trots off to the drinking fountain every Sunday right after communion, washes him down with a long sip of water, and then returns bounding back to her seat with eyes fixed on the side door that leads down to the hall, where sugary maple donuts are calling her name.  We do have a rule, though, and it’s all I can do to make both girls stand patiently, singing if they can, until the priest processes down the aisle before they can leap over our neighbors and bolt for those donuts.  They zip off and I take the longer route out the  main doors of the church so that I can pass by the baptismal font and bless myself with holy water, and by the time I’ve made my way down to the hall, they’ve got their sweets and are ready to go.

We’ve spent another Sunday morning sitting close to one another for a whole hour, though, locking arms and holding hands, singing . . . smiling . . . praying, and while my little loves look most forward to those donuts, every minute is just as sweet to me.

 


If you liked this post, you might enjoy The Donuts Are Working | Service is A Strength, Love | All The Birds Sing Back | Are My Wings Wide Enough?

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