You must keep to what you have been taught and know to be true;
remember who your teachers were, and how, ever since you were a child
you have known the holy scriptures - from these, you can learn
the wisdom that leads to salvation through faith in Jesus Christ.
Second Timothy, 3:14-15
The lights weren't even on yet when I walked into church an hour early for Mass. Only one other person sat among the pews, a woman in black who is a constant presence at the end of her row, a reliable fixture in the sanctuary regardless of which service I attend. She looked up from her rosary as I entered. She smiled and nodded as I whispered "Good morning," and the black beads never stopped marching slowly through her fingers, her small army in the war against evil.
I sat alone in the diluted sunlight filtering through the stained glass windows depicting the life of Jesus of Nazareth. The light seemed to move as the church darkened and glowed with each passing cloud, and when it seemed to be calling for my attention, I looked over at the window. "Nativity" is written in plain lettering among the colorful image of the Holy Family.
In the altar space is a simple wooden crucifix standing off to one side. Crucified, I pondered, and for everyone. For me. I'm surrounded by Jesus here, not only in a spiritual reality but also in an iconic, physical sense: His life is depicted in stained glass, his suffering and death in artwork along the walls; he is baptized in bas relief, and breaks bread on the wall above the Blessed Sacrament. There are statues and icons and paintings depicting the key moments of his life: His birth, his death, his resurrection. I am humbled and I feel so undeserving and small - a feeling that gives me a sense of peace and comfort.
What do you want me to do? I ask in silent prayer. My eyes are drawn to a small but beautifully detailed painting of the Risen Christ on the ceiling above the altar. What can I do?
What do you want me to do? I ask in silent prayer. My eyes are drawn to a small but beautifully detailed painting of the Risen Christ on the ceiling above the altar. What can I do?
It seems that when I have a question, God always has an answer. I don't know if he simply answers me, or if the answer is already there inside me and he simply draws it to the surface. But he answers me, just as he answers everyone when they take time to listen. And then sometimes, he keeps answering to make sure that I don't forget.
"Bring your kids to church, Katie."
Suddenly, the empty space beside me which any other time of the week is filled by my children, my constant companions, feels even wider and colder. Enjoying my time alone in the church to pray and listen to the choir practice suddenly feels so selfish; reserving Mass as a special time for myself - and not a time for community even with my own family before God - feels wrong. The guilt is tangible and runs through me like a shiver.
I start to notice the families filling the pews: A mother and father with six children in tow, children they no doubt brought to church every Sunday from infancy for their own sake regardless of how difficult it may have been; babies wrapped in blankets in heavy carriers being toted by tired mothers. Young boys drop clumsily to their knees on the hard ground and genuflect, some faster than others. Little girls with opaque white tights gathering in rolls around their shiny white shoes stand on the kneelers and look around the sanctuary quietly. A baby cries somewhere behind me. The space next to me where my own kids should be grows even wider.
"Bring your kids to church, Katie."
Suddenly, the empty space beside me which any other time of the week is filled by my children, my constant companions, feels even wider and colder. Enjoying my time alone in the church to pray and listen to the choir practice suddenly feels so selfish; reserving Mass as a special time for myself - and not a time for community even with my own family before God - feels wrong. The guilt is tangible and runs through me like a shiver.
I start to notice the families filling the pews: A mother and father with six children in tow, children they no doubt brought to church every Sunday from infancy for their own sake regardless of how difficult it may have been; babies wrapped in blankets in heavy carriers being toted by tired mothers. Young boys drop clumsily to their knees on the hard ground and genuflect, some faster than others. Little girls with opaque white tights gathering in rolls around their shiny white shoes stand on the kneelers and look around the sanctuary quietly. A baby cries somewhere behind me. The space next to me where my own kids should be grows even wider.
The readings seem to speak in a simple way to my prayer. "...ever since you were a child, you have known the holy scriptures." I hardly remember a time when I sat in church as a child. Will my children?
As I leave, I stop to shake Father Joe's hand. He asks how my little ones are doing, and I simply say, "Wonderful." God made his point; he always does.
I used to think of Mass as a time for me, a small but spiritual vacation alone to start my week the right way. It uplifts me, it inspires me, it ignites in me a burning passion to do the right things. It took me until now to realize that I have been neglecting to do the right thing this whole time. Mass isn't a time for me, it isn't a vacation. It is a time for God, a time for communion. One of the greatest blessings he gives us in this world is our children - they are our children and his children, and they too need to commune, to be uplifted, to be inspired. It starts in childhood, this knowledge of the holy scriptures, and only by giving them a chance to learn will they someday gain "the wisdom that leads to salvation."
"Bring your kids to church, Katie."
It'll be hard to control two toddlers on my own (I'll be working on bringing my husband next), but I'll try. However difficult it may be, it'll be worth it. After all, we are "not made for comfort, but for greatness", as Pope Benedict XVI said. Right?
As I leave, I stop to shake Father Joe's hand. He asks how my little ones are doing, and I simply say, "Wonderful." God made his point; he always does.
I used to think of Mass as a time for me, a small but spiritual vacation alone to start my week the right way. It uplifts me, it inspires me, it ignites in me a burning passion to do the right things. It took me until now to realize that I have been neglecting to do the right thing this whole time. Mass isn't a time for me, it isn't a vacation. It is a time for God, a time for communion. One of the greatest blessings he gives us in this world is our children - they are our children and his children, and they too need to commune, to be uplifted, to be inspired. It starts in childhood, this knowledge of the holy scriptures, and only by giving them a chance to learn will they someday gain "the wisdom that leads to salvation."
"Bring your kids to church, Katie."
It'll be hard to control two toddlers on my own (I'll be working on bringing my husband next), but I'll try. However difficult it may be, it'll be worth it. After all, we are "not made for comfort, but for greatness", as Pope Benedict XVI said. Right?
