First Holy Communion

Well, it was a two-steps-forward-one-step-back three months to get Little One to her first Holy Communion. It started back in January. See, our parish has this thing where they do Sunday School for the first half of the school year, then the parents take over for the second half. For the record, I have no problem with this, other than the fact it seems a bit out of the ordinary since I never did it as a kid myself. But I kinda like the fact that we’re involved in her religious formation.

Anyway, back in January we got a First Penance workbook. Six chapters, six weeks until the little ones were scheduled to tell their deepest, darkest sins to Father Jim (“I yelled at my sister!” “I snuck a box of yogurt raisins from the kitchen cabinet!”) I would read the chapter with my Little One, one a week, usually each of us alternating paragraphs. There were big lessons to be drawn, as well as pictures. Other fun stuff for her including things like mini crossword puzzles and word searches.

Early in March she went to first Penance – the last of like a hundred kids to go. We went to the mass with her and were very proud when she left the confessional and got her certificate and a little cross pin to wear. She was fearless and perhaps even eager to receive this Sacrament, which made me feel quite relieved, as I had a very profound fear of adults as a little kid, especially big adults like Father Jim.

Then, another workbook, this one for First Holy Communion. Six chapters over six weeks again, though I must admit (maybe confess?) that we slacked a bit and wound up doing four chapters the last week. There was also an artsy-craftsy banner she had to make for the pew her family would be sitting in, which made us growl, “This is why there should always be Sunday School on Sundays!” But it turned out beautiful, as does most everything Little One does. (Yes, I realize I am totally biased, so take the previous sentence with big heapings of salt.)

Before we knew it, the day of the Communion was here. I volunteer as an Extraordinary Minister of Holy Communion at my parish (one of the laypeople who help serve the Body and Blood during mass). I’m on a rotating schedule, about twice a month, but they asked me if I wanted to help out at my daughter’s ceremony. Of course I agreed, and we made arrangements so I would give her the first taste of the wine-turned-mystical-blood. Father Jim would give her the Eucharist, as is fitting and proper.

The whole weekend seemed surrealistically like a dress rehearsal for a wedding. A mini-wedding. Friends and relatives flew in; some stayed with us, some stayed in a local Residence Inn. There was a reception to follow. There was a cake to pick up. There was a line out the door to the bathroom all morning. Suits to put on, ties to match. My darling Little One in her beautiful white dress. And a mad dash to get to the church on time.

She was absolutely gorgeous, glowing and radiant as she walked down the aisle, heading a procession of about twenty-five of her young peers. The girls all looked like miniature brides; the boys all looked like slobby goofballs. Thanks to a trick in the alphabet, we got the first pew on the left side of the church. The ceremony was at times moving, reverent, and humorous, as Father Jim walked down off the altar to engage the children in various discussions about the importance of food, and tied it all in to the Spiritual Food in which they were momentarily to be given.

After the mass we closed down the church taking a couple thousand digital photographs of every possible permutation of family members with Little One. We made it to the upscale pizzeria a town over where we booked a side room for a couple of hours. Course after course after course came out for us and our guests: cheeses, meats, salads, pastas, pizzas. My wife picked up a case of red and white, and a case of beer, and it all flowed. The children ran around insane; our admonishments for them not to run with utensils only led them to fashion jailhouse shivs with wine bottle corks and toothpicks. The communion cake which ended the afternoon seemed almost anticlimactic.

We got back home by four or five, unpacked, and watched the ponies at the Kentucky Derby. My in-laws and our friends from Pittsburgh hung out with us till nearly midnight, drinking wine and eating cold leftover pizza. We let Little One have a sleepover with Maddie; they stayed up until nearly eleven giggling and reading with the lava lamp on. Then, the next day, we all had to race back to the church again, for, per Father Jim, the Saturday communion mass technically did not fulfill our Sunday obligation. My daughter wore her white dress again, and again was absolutely stunning.

I’m still tired from the weekend, and I’m still fighting that chest congestion from a week ago, but I’m way, way on the rebound. Tonight I plan on chilling, reading a Western I’m working my way through, and something weird on the Voynich manuscript. I feel good, and life is good.