Reverence, cont'd

At the Communion Rail - On the Tongue

I remember coming home from school (Holy Trinity, Norfolk, VA)  in the '70s and telling my Dad we were being instructed on Communion in the hand. It was a new thing at the time, and we were told it wasn't mandatory, but encouraged and given not much more information than how it was done. It seemed wrong, though, even to me, a stupid kid. I had questions I was too shy to ask the teacher in class. But no worries; Dad would explain. So, I cornered him in his study that afternoon and told him all about it.

 In my whole life with my father, I only saw him three times with tears in his eyes. This was one of those times, and the first time, actually, that I saw his composure slip. He recovered himself, of course. I remember him folding his arms across his chest like he used to do -- and he turned away for a minute -- then gathered himself and got right into Dad mode. Before I'd recovered from my astonishment, he whipped out into the living room and called a family meeting wherein we were forbidden to ever ever touch the Blessed Sacrament. Ever.

The priest's hands are consecrated in order to make him worthy to touch the sacred Eucharist -- and he does so with great reverence and humility -- after years and years of study and preparation -- while leading a life of prayer and sacrifice. While there we kids were, with dirty fingernails, picking our noses and behaving like heathens. Or words to that effect. ;)  And Our Lord deserves far better than that. Of all of us, not just snotnosed kids. Don't be presuming otherwise.

We took him seriously, said, "yessir," because, even if we didn't really understand, it was obviously a matter of great importance -- and there was no question that Dad's say on the matter (any matter) trumped anyone else's. Even the catechism teachers'. And whoever else was making new rules that my Dad said disrespected Our Lord. Respect was something we understood.

But it didn't dawn on me until much later why this lesson he taught us struck so deep a chord in my soul that I remember it more than forty years later as if it were yesterday. I 'got' the idea of respect right off -- that was nothing new -- but the tears I'd seen in my Dad's eyes connected it with love. You treat with respect those you love. My Dad, yes. Christ, even more so. I learned from one how to love the other.

And, dear Lord, I so hope I've passed the lesson on. It may have been the one great lesson of my life -- and there I was, a kid with dirty fingernails, never guessing it'd be my job to pass that torch. Something we all have to do; no matter when it's passed to us, we have to spread the light of it in every way we can -- and pray that others open their eyes to see.

* If this post seems familiar, it's because I first published it on facebook a few months ago; thought I'd like to have it here, as well. Filed under: true stories I want my children and grandchildren to find long after I'm dead.