It’s a typical daily Mass, and I’m participating from behind the glass doors where I’ve taken refuge with my loud toddler. Belly bulging with new baby, it’s a struggle to kneel on the tile floor, and I am somewhat resentful.
“Lord, have mercy” I mutter, as if my loud toddler is His fault.
The foyer isn’t soundproof, but it goes a long way to muffle the noise of little people who have not yet reached the age of reasonably complying with their parents’ pleas for silence.
Several other parents I can see from my vantage point are on the cusp of joining me. Nervously bending over a loud child, hissing for silence, eyes wide with ‘meaningful looks.’
It’s near the Consecration, and a boy in the back is fidgety. I can see him starting to lean too far over the pew in front of him. The mother in me is leaning forward to pull him back, although he is not mine, and the glass door prevents my interacting, even if it were my responsibility.
Father is elevating the Consecrated Host. If we could see with spiritual eyes, the sanctuary would be full of angels, prostrate before the incarnate Word, Who has taken on physical dimension to accompany us on our Long Journey.
The boy loses his balance. “Papa, I need help!” His cry is spontaneous, the volume untempered by sacred awe for the moment or place. I imagine the angels turning to look.
I cringe interiorly, knowing the glances of disapprobation the parents are sure to receive, anticipating the pointed commentary of departing parishioners after Mass. Too close to my own memory of once being asked to keep my children from the sanctuary. But instead, the angels are looking at me.
They are pointing toward Our Lord, elevated in the priest’s hands. They are encouraging me — all of us — to cry the same thing to God at this sacred moment. “Papa,” we cry out in concert as his hidden Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity is raised before us, “Papa, I need help!” But our sweet Lord has anticipated our need, and is already among us.
