The 21st reason for not crying during your daughter’s senior year of high school is class Masses. This is obviously a very silly reason to cry because no school child ever desires to see a parent at a school event after about the age of 11 or 12. In particular, most children do not want parents who have been inadvertently choking up at every single one since 2007.
There is just something about Mass for children that has always gotten to me. Hearing their sweet little voices lifted in song, watching the readers and ushers so serious and focused, remembering how Jesus loved little children and said the best way to enter heaven was by emulating childlike faith and wonder. Not crying.
In the last couple of weeks, both of my younger children have read at school Mass. These Masses occur at 9a on Thursdays which is, of course, wildly convenient for working parents. Nevertheless, my commitment to my children has always been that if humanly possible, I will make it. It has always been such a jolt of pure bliss seeing their eager faces watching the door for my arrival, and their relief and joy when I walk in. This week, I sat behind a dad who showed up a little late (solidarity, my brother) arriving just before the entrance processional. As he slid into the pew, his young son gratefully bounded in and slid to snuggle into his side and I didn’t cry. Little kids always want to be close to, physically touching as much as possible, their parents. My own youngest daughter was tucked against my left side, my young nephew on the left, my youngest son smiling in my direction from the planning class section of the sanctuary. I didn’t think of my big kids just a few short years ago, relieved and pleased instead of annoyed and pretending not to see me, when I arrived for their school events. Not crying.
It feels like five minutes ago that I was attending their Masses. None of my big kids are the sort to sign up for roles at middle school or high school Masses. None of them have ever expressed a desire for me to attend any in school religious events since elementary school, and since my job is generally very eager to have me available during the work day, I don’t attend. Not crying.
Lucy happened to mention that this Mass was her “last ever class Mass” and I naturally did not cry. These are inevitable milestones, and I didn’t cry during her reading, or in the memories of my big girl at her last Mass. I didn’t cry to remember the rather startling transition I made from 12 years of Catholic schooling, to the very secular life of a college student all those many years ago. I didn’t cry thinking how deeply my big girl has been marinated in her faith—very much by design—and how starting in just a few short months she will realize how little it will be integrated in her life (unless by her design, God willing) going forward. My biggest motivation for sending my kids to Catholic school is the integration of faith into their daily lives. I love that Mass is part of their weekly experience—just not on weekends with us—but in their school lives. I love that their days and sporting events and competitions all begin with prayer. I love that there are crucifixes and statues and Bibles in nearly every room they enter when they leave my home during these growing up years. It is highly unlikely that it will be the same for Grace next year (neither of the schools in her final two options are Catholic). Not crying.
I don’t believe it is unusual at this point of parenting to look back and wrestle a bit with some regrets and uncertainties. Was she loved enough? Did I feed her enough broccoli or too much refined sugar? Did I show her enough adventure and protect her precious heart enough? But the deepest fear is the everlasting one—did I put her on the right path to a lifelong relationship with the Divine? Will she carry her faith forward into her future life? I deeply, deeply desire for this to be true. I pray endlessly that it be so. Not crying.
But, at the end of the day, school Masses are just another inconvenience and interruption to an already insane schedule. It’s just words on paper that they read with only a rudimentary understanding of what they contain. It’s just stolen snuggles in a church pew in the middle of a work day to the tune of sweet little voices raised in praise-filled song. It wasn’t even Grace’s last Class Mass. It was her sister’s. Grace wasn’t even there. She’s not at so many things these days—preparing our hearts for next year when she’ll miss almost everything. It’s just class Mass. I’m not crying. You’re crying.
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