My youngest daughter and I sat in the pew before confirmation,
trying to spread ourselves out a bit in order to save seats for the rest of our
family. It dawned on me that we needed far fewer seats than usual. Two of our
children were sitting with the confirmandi, and two others were sitting with
the sponsors. Our eldest lives in Los Angeles. So, we were down to four out of
nine with us in the pew. No grandparents would be here this time. I briefly
remembered the firstborn’s confirmation. I was beyond nauseated with
all-day-morning-sickness. It was late and so hard to keep all those little ones
awake and calm through the long liturgy. Now, the baby I was anticipating that
time was being confirmed and everyone in the pew could be counted on to behave
well. But there were far fewer of us there.
I am an old hat at sacrament celebrations: nine baptisms, eight first
Communions, seven confirmations, one wedding. White dresses, special ties, cake
in the reception hall, favorite meals at home. Iron all the shirts; clean the
house from top to bottom in anticipation of the party.
“This is the last time I will go Mass and not receive Communion,”
she whispered to me as we waited there for confirmation on a Wednesday night.
My mind leaped ahead to Saturday. Her first Communion. My last first Communion.
It’s all so routine that I hadn’t even thought yet about what we should plan
for her party. I turned to look at her.
Eyes sparkling, dimples deepening, she whispered, “I’m so excited
I don’t know how I’m going to sleep. I’m never going to have to be without
Jesus at Mass again.”
It’s not routine at all. The parties might have a predictable
pattern, and they definitely come more easily to me now, since I’m practiced at
old-fashioned celebrations and I avoid Pinterest like the plague, lest I be
tempted to find something to stress me. But the sacrament itself is not routine
at all.
It’s been just long enough since our last family confirmation
that the child next to me had lots of questions. Last time, she was sleepy and
unaware. This time, she wanted to know why the bishop wore that hat and why he
carried that shepherd’s crook. She wanted to know about the chrism. She inhaled
it all — the richness of liturgy met the wide-eyed faith of a little girl who
simply believes.
Tomorrow, she receives her first Communion. She’ll wear the same
dress her three sisters wore. She’ll wear a veil fashioned from her
sister-in-law’s wedding veil. Afterward, we’ll all gather at home and try hard
to swallow the lump that rises every time we realize that this is the child for
whom no grandparents are present for big events. The more things stay the same,
the more they change.
What endures is Jesus. He is always there, always the same
dependable presence. Yet He meets us right where we are. He meets the little
girl who approaches the altar for the first time. He meets the pregnant mom
with so many little ones she wonders if she should live in a nursery rhyme
shoe. He meets the woman for whom the pew feels oddly empty after so many years
of filling it to its fullest. He is the same, yet He grows to fill whatever
size hole we bring to His presence. He is hope. He is strength. And He is
consolation.
Foss, whose website is elizabethfoss.com, is a freelance
writer from Northern Virginia.