Holy time-traveling DeLorian! The thread that won’t die because we keep resurrecting it like a zombie in a cheap B-movie!
I attended one parish a few years ago before I moved which had a children’s study. The children were dismissed before the readings, and came back later after the homily. I helped out with this program most weekends for a while.
One Sunday, an adorable girl named Alice joined us, about five, maybe six years old. When we get back, she can’t find her dad. We wander around the whole church looking for him, acutely aware of the fact that I have another person’s kid in tow, I haven’t done the Virtus training yet, and that if someone accuses me of kidnapping, my application to seminary is probably going to be burned as kindling for the Easter vigil fire. When the communion procession begins, all I can selfishly think of is “I need to go up for communion.” Yeah, “need” was the thought for some reason. So I drag this other guy’s daughter up with me, telling her, “Maybe we can see him better from the front of the church.” That didn’t work, but she got a blessing from Monsignor at least. We did find her dad at the end of the mass. I don’t know where he was, but I think we were circling each other, because he thought the kids would come back at the end of the mass, not after the sign of peace, and didn’t know where to meet her. The poor girl was terrified.
Another time, there was one new boy, probably three years old, who was super excited about the whole thing. Father said a few words, and sent the kids out the side doors as usual. The boy stood staring at Father for a moment, then watched all the kids leave, then looked at Father, and back at the kids. Then he walked up the steps toward the presider’s chair, and looked back at Father. Father was laughing by this time, and said something like “Oh, you want my job, do you?” And the did walks up, climbs up in his chair, and sits down in this giant thing, looking very regal, with both arms up on the armrests. Father grabbed one of the empty server chairs and sat down next to the kid, and the two just stare at each other, Father trying not to laugh too hard, and the kid just with this O_O look. Just as the lector was coming up, the kid decides, “I don’t think I want to do this after all,” and climbs down and runs out the side doors. Father stayed in the other chair and pretended to pout.
About a month ago, at seminary, we were praying solemn evening vespers in common on a feast day (Chair of St. Peter, maybe), so everything was sung. We finished with the prayers, and Father gave the blessing, and before we can begin the Marian canticle, our music director, who is a brilliant organist, starts playing some really lively processional music. He looks like a madman, with his arms flying everywhere, and he’s really getting into it. After a few bars, he looks up to see Father glaring at him and giving him the “kill it!” motion at his throat and plays three very disappointed sounding notes as an outro, which sound sadder with each note: “DOM! dom. daaaaaaaannnnnn…” It was almost cartoony–although maybe my amusement of the event is coloring my memory of those notes. When we finished the canticle, he began again, much more modestly, hunched over so no one could see him in his embarrassment.
