Then we passed peace, just like we do every week, except I was noticing how my daughter reached across two (or three, if we let her) pews to pass “PEACE!” She was putting the enthusiasm into it that many of us just…lack. She was making it fun, and everyone who received peace from her smiled; they couldn’t help it. She didn’t care who she passed “PEACE!” to, and she was all for passing it twice or three times, well into the “Agnus Dei.” (She has a special fondness for babies and other children, though, so had we been in range of one, she would have been passing “PEACE!” extra-enthusiastically in that direction.)
Why is it that I don’t pass peace with this kind of excitement? Do I look forward to Mass – to seeing my neighbor and showing my love – the way my daughter does? Do I skip to the front with my hands so carefully folded, because I know there’s something special waiting for me? What is that I’m thinking as I putter through the motions? Am I gazing with love and amazement and wonder at the sunlight streaming through the stained glass, at the sparkling of the holy water, at the music hanging in the air?
My bad attitude could use a lot of work. I need to point myself home, and find my Father waiting for me with the fattened calf on the back burner. I need to forget about my jealousies and grudges and join the party for my forgiven brother. I need to accept the gifts I’ve been given with a hearty “THANK YOU, God!” instead of a grudging “That’s IT?!”
There’s a reason that children are a model for us, and I see it every night at dinner when my daughter says “AMEN!” with such ferocity the dog jumps. I witness it at crowded restaurants, when my daughter sees the plates of steaming food, folds her hands, and demands “PRAY!” without a thought of what other people might think. I think of how she runs up to Padre and hugs him when he comes in the office, and how she demands a kiss and hug when he leaves. I see her practice blessing herself with the holy water, and I think about that baptism not so long ago, when I was holding her above the font and promising to do my best to raise her in line with the words of the Creed.
I may not see fireworks, but I do see plenty of evidence to gaze up with wonder. I may not be able to contain my emotions, and I may use doll clothes or my own sleeves now and then to wipe my nose, but that’s not going to keep me from it. I may not feel like I’m “getting a lot out of Mass” when I’m there, but I’m going to keep at it, and I’m not going to give in to the myth of a Mass without that girl who makes me appreciate it more.