15 January 2002
We brought our just-past-three-years-old son to the late Christmas Eve service this year. It’s the fourth time he’s attended that service, and all at St. George’s.
The first year, he was not quite three weeks old. He dozed through most of the service, apparently soothed by the loud organ music and all the singing. That night, he slept for eight hours, solid. Welcome sleep for the parents, but not necessarily soothing— “Is he still breathing?” and all.
This year, he has become much more interested in what’s going on during the service. We keep answering his questions, encouraging him to sit quietly when we’re all supposed to be listening. He’s still trying to wrap his mind around that concept.
He’s also still trying to learn when to whisper. During Anna Maria’s Christmas Eve sermon, my son turned to me and asked, “When is she going to give us the crust?” It was loud enough, I think, that some of you may have heard it.
Now, I can’t confess to attending services regularly for the past year or more. To say my attendence has been spotty would be overly generous. And my son doesn’t always come with me. And although we had talked about coming to church Christmas Eve, and about the big music (which he still loves) and the singing, we hadn’t mentioned anything about “the crust.” He remembered that all on his own.
And he kept asking, even though we tried to tell him we had to wait a little longer. That we had to present the offertory. That Anna Maria had to say the blessing. That we had to wait our turn at the altar rail. Finally, we were at the rail. I reminded him how to hold his hands, and Anna Maria put “the crust” in his palm. And he said, “Thank you.” I think Anna Maria chuckled a bit.
Reflecting back on that evening, I marvel at how persistent his questions were. At how, despite the “big music” and all the singing, his focus was right where it ought to have been— on “the crust.”