Mass Hysteria

I shift the gear into park and savor my last moment of relaxation in the church parking lot. Our three children, Mary (4), David (3), and Matthew (1) are buckled in their seats. I look over at Laura, she smiles back at me. It’s not the life-is-wonderful smile, it’s the I-believe-in-you-no-matter-what-happens smile. I then turn around and utter the last optimistic remark for the morning: “Here we go kids!”

We have arrived just in time to be less than 10 minutes late. Laura and I hurry our children across the downtown street. Mary wants to be held as if she were a baby, David wants to run away as if he were an adult. We offer a compromise that will disappoint them both: dragging them by the hands as they go limp and scream in protest.

As we make our way in, the elderly ushers shuffle to our aid. Generally speaking, a church usher’s seating philosophy is fairly straightforward: young energized single people in the back, flustered disheveled parents in the front. But these ushers are not that cruel, they know us all too well.

They guide us to our VIP back pew and bring bags of toys and books for the kids. These are helpful in keeping the young ones busy while they sit for an hour on a wooden bench. Our children, however, cannot sustain more than 20 seconds of interest in anything unless it is a dangerous object.

Matthew bites into the book and learns it’s not food, David tries to throw a drawing pad and learns it’s not a baseball–lame. They both start fussing. Their fussing soon escalates to kicking and thrashing. Laura grabs Matthew and bounces him on her knee. I grab David and point out the mesmerizing stain glass windows. This buys us five more seconds.

Matthew and David are trying to escape halfway through the second reading. In desperation, we utilize our last weapons: food and drink. Laura gives Matthew his bottle as I give David his juice. It’s a sippy cup that is designed for “slow” sipping. David slams it down like John Belushi shotgunning a beer. That’s three additional seconds.

David tosses the drink and immediately tries to climb the pew. I see his climb attempt and raise him a bag of crackers. He inhales them, grabs my hand, and says “come on Dad let’s go”. When I pull him back in the pew, he unleashes a scream that would have would have sent the hobbits fleeing from the shire.

While hanging out in the commons area during our brief intermission, David works on his sprinting drills as I tune in for any audible clues that communion is coming up. That is the crucial moment no Catholic can skip; if you miss communion, you might as well have stayed home.

When the priest calls on everyone to exchange a sign of peace, that’s our cue. I bring David back in.

Up at the altar, the priest distributes the wine into separate cups for the Eucharistic ministers. He pours the wine so slowly, it’s as if he’s handling nytrogliceride solutions in a nuclear weapons facility. As I’m watching this, I suddenly realize David is gone.

I look around in the Church and see that he has perched himself on the ledge of the baptismal font. He’s leaning over to look into the water with his butt sticking out and his toes just barely maintaining contact with the bottom step. He is one tiny slip away from his first swimming lesson.

Since Laura’s busy trying to turn off a malfunctioning car alarm (Matthew), it’s up to me to get David. Despite the urgency, I’m not about to run down the aisle like some idiot. I’ve suffered enough embarrassment already. Instead, I calmly yet briskly walk in a James-Bond-like fashion. As I’m halfway there, I can still hear Laura angrily whispering at me to run before David falls in. I respectfully ignore her. “So what if David falls in,” I think to myself, “he needs all the spiritual cleansing he can get.”

As I bring a screaming David back down the aisle, communion is starting. I know I only have a 3 minute window to hold onto David given his mental state. I wait until the line is just short enough and make run for it.

The communion line, however, is as slow as it is short. By “slow,” I mean still. I lean to the side to see if the Eucharistic minister ran out of communion or had a stroke. I then see the problem: rather than handing out the communion wafers, she takes each one and holds it right up to her face as if she’s inspecting a Florida ballot from the 2000 presidential election. After a brief pause, she says “the…body…of..Christ.” Then the person says “Amen.” Once the phrase “Amen” is complete, she then places the communion in the person’s hand.

As this is happening, David’s thrashing worsens. He starts snapping his torso like a male gymnast trying to hoist himself up on the handle rings. By this point, I’m sweating through my shirt.

Now because communion is the pinnacle moment, it requires undivided spiritual attention…which I am miserably lacking. If one could see thought bubbles above each parishioner’s head in my communion line, it would look something like this:

Parishioner: Lord, I pray to thee…

Parishioner: Lord, I pray to thee…

Me: Woman can we move it along?!?! I cannot hold this rabid animal any longer. Good lord I’m sweaty! Wait, who’s that family giving me the pity wave? Oh it’s the Johnsons. How nice. Smile, Kyle just smile. I swear next time I’m using a leash. I don’t care how many dirty looks I get, the last thing I need is an expensive surgery for a slipped disk at age thirt–oh hey we’re up!

When the Eucharistic minister holds the Eucharist up to me, I shoot out my one free hand in desperation. She serenely places the communion in my hand and I scarf it. She then places her hand on David’s head to give David a blessing. To my surprise, David gleefully yells, “THANKS!”

At that moment, for the first time, I feel some sense of relief. David is not communion-ready quite yet, but something tells me he is starting to understand some parts of mass after all.