Before you go, say your prayers. Like most of my advice, I expect this to make you roll your eyes, but I'm going to say it anyway. I feel like I've said it ten thousand times over the years, but maybe I haven't been as insistent in the last few (when you, arguably, probably need more prayers than ever!)
And we went to church. Every weekend, rain, shine, or snow. I dressed you both to the nines, often in matching colors. And I prayed for you and with you every day (notably, during the months leading up to your only brother’s birth when you prayed day after day “for everybody on the whole planet and that the baby is a BOY!”). A lot about that time is a blur. You came just 18 months after your big sister, your next sister just 2 and a half years later, the last two within 4 years of her. I didn’t sleep through the night for almost 10 years. But we got up for Mass every single week. I can count on one hand the number of times we missed as it has been a priority for your dad and I from the very beginning.
I always worry about you two biggest kids in
those years. Certainly, you got the most (ok, second most) of my perfectionist and deeply diligent parenting. You got
lots of daily baths and tummy time and reading aloud. I still went to story hours at the library
and enrichment days at local zoos and museums (unlike the younger kids who
mostly got to go to your sporting events and the grocery store). But one thing I have almost never missed,
through all those long and exhausting seasons of mothering was weekly
Mass. I always liked to go as a family,
as far as that usually was from a prayerful and meditative experience. Your
dad, however, didn’t have as much patience as I and often got up for early Mass so I didn’t
have to drag all you littles along. On
one notable occasion, you and I got up for early Mass instead of your dad. You were probably up anyway, and woke me, and
we decided to sneak out and let the others sleep. Those were the days when you preferred to be
with me wherever I was going, even if it was church, than to be separated from
me. You were a curly haired, big blue
eyed toddler and we sat in the back as we usually did. At one point, you decided you were thirsty,
and started nagging me that you needed a drink RIGHT NOW. I told you no, and you became increasingly
agitated, eventually whisper yelling your demand. I said no, tried to return my attention to
the priest, only to be interrupted shortly thereafter by an usher holding a
small dixie cup of water. I can still
see your big eyes twinkling at me over the rim of that cup as I thanked the
usher profusely and glared down at your innocent little head. You had a way of getting what you wanted.
The thing is, Sam, God will always give you what you need if you ask Him in prayer. You might not always get what you want--most of us learn that the hard way eventually--but a loving and personal God like ours will nourish and care for you throughout your life if you let Him. Faith is such a fundamental cornerstone of life. I can’t imagine living without it. You know weekly Mass is non-negotiable—it’s the bare minimum of what we need to maintain a relationship with God. Before you go, I hope I’ve instilled that love in you. I hope you realize how necessary, how beautiful, how glorious life in Jesus can be. I was a senior in high school when I came across these words in John, “my dear people, let us love one another because GOD IS LOVE.” Now you see those words on bumper stickers, but back then I remember being utterly flabbergasted. Our God IS LOVE? I’m no theologian, and I won’t push this much further, but think about that, Sam, when you set out into this world without me. I know it will be easy to sleep in on Sunday mornings, but the rhythm of that habit, the return to quiet moments of reflection on a God who calls Himself love, will never be wasted.
We sat behind a large family last weekend at Mass. You had joined us—oftentimes you go to later Masses than our typical family time of 8:30—and sat rather empty eyed and likely a bit bored. I doubt you even noticed them, but I did. They are all collectively much younger than us, and I often think they look like we must have 10 years ago. They also have 5 children, the oldest two a quiet and calm girl and boy. As I watched this family last week, it was as though they were reenacting a hundred Sundays of ours. The younger children clung to the mom, rubbing her shoulders and back, lifting their arms to be held, toying with her jewelry and clothes. The dad shot stern glances and reached briefly to hold his wife’s hand. The oldest sister tended the younger ones her mom couldn’t reach. She opened story books and retrieved dropped toys and alternated between indulgent smiles and irritated sighs at the antics of the small ones. It wasn’t until almost the end of church that I noticed the oldest boy. He was self-contained and unperturbed by the chaos around him. He made the motions of the Mass without much fanfare or enthusiasm and no one paid much attention to him. I watched him quietly for awhile and thought of you, my own quiet and unassuming little boy. By the time you had reached that age—probably 8 or 9—you, too, were big brother to 3 littles. You, too, were slightly overshadowed by a responsible big sister whose actions you could never quite match for helpfulness. You, too, sat quietly beside us at Mass after Mass, sometimes pestering your little brother (let’s not paint this too sweetly, after all) sometimes resting your face rather dramatically in your hands, elbows on knees, in a gesture of mute exasperation and exhaustion. Next year, I won’t be around to make you go, but I hope you still do. I hope that our faith, the backdrop of your whole life to this point, has filtered into the core of your being as it had mine at your age.
Before you go, say your prayers. Go to church. Know Jesus. Our God is Love, and you should keep him by your side for now and always.
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