Mass Distractions

Stephen pulls at the neckline of my sweater. His tiny wet fingers explore my ears and neck. He grabs a fistful of my hair and stuffs it into his mouth. I keep my eyes forward, silently congratulating myself for paying attention to the first reading despite the antics of my 7-month-old sidekick. When I glance at the missal over my husband's shoulder, however, I discover that I am actually listening to the second reading. How could that be? What was the first reading? Did I really miss the Psalm?

I pick up my own missal to refresh my memory. As I flip through the pages, the crinkle of paper attracts Stephen's attention and he lunges for the book. I try to hold it out of his reach, but he whines in frustration so instead I close the missal and put it away. His whine turns into a wail. When I try to silence him with a pacifier, he slaps it from my hand and shrieks with rage. A few people in the front pew turn around to look at us. My husband grimaces.

I smile apologetically, squeeze past my older children sitting in the pew and begin a familiar walk down the aisle toward the back of the church. Men avert their eyes. Old ladies smile at my screeching bundle. Children crane their necks to watch us walk past.

“Where's Mama going?” I hear the sound of my 2-year-old's voice above the Alleluia.

So goes another Sunday morning, and I am exiled once again. I stand at the back of the church, balancing Stephen on my hip. He clings to me like a tiny monkey and at last is quiet. I sometimes wonder about the kind of spiritual life God expects me to have when I find it difficult even to pay attention while I am at Mass. With young children occupying my days and nights, it seems that attending an uninterrupted Mass once a week would be a minimal request. I find some comfort, though, in knowing I am not the only parent with a far from contemplative spiritual life.

“Let's put it this way,” my sister joked in a recent phone conversation. “I'm not in danger of levitating any time soon.”

The other outcasts I meet at the back of the church each Sunday also appear to have their feet planted firmly on the ground. We share knowing glances as we rock boisterous babies in our arms. We exchange apologies and nods of understanding when the toddlers we are chasing happen to collide. We wave to each other's children at the sign of peace.

An older woman once stopped me after Mass and told me not to be embarrassed by Stephen's disturbances.

“He gives glory to God by being the best baby he can,” she explained.

I think she was right. Babies may not sit peacefully in the pews worshipping God as grown-ups do, but they praise God in the only way they can, by being the beautiful creatures he intended them to be. They don't waste time wondering about God's expectations or longing for different circumstances. They wholeheartedly embrace the role they have been given. Every squirmy, drooly, grabbing, shrieking inch of these little ones testifies to the glory and wonder of God's creation.

Perhaps we parents who are distracted by their pawing hands and active bodies can learn from their example. Just as Stephen's job is to be a baby, mine is to be his mother. God doesn't want me to levitate. He wants me to give my little ones the attention they require, even when it's inconvenient, even when it seems there are holier things to do. I cannot easily follow the readings or meditate on the sermon while at Mass, but I can unconditionally accept the tasks God gives me right now, even on Sunday morning.

Glory be to God!

Danielle Bean writes from Center Harbor,

New Hampshire.