Stories I want to remember

I imagine that since the advent of digital photography the rate at which people develop their photos has plummeted.  Case in point:  we haven't developed a single photo since Joe turned a year old.  That's over six years ago.  We have, however, stored thousands of photos on computers and memory sticks and, thankfully, on this blog.  That is, after all, what this blog is to our a family:  a photo album.  The kids regularly ask me if they can read the blog and I find them scrolling back through the years cracking up at their antics and amazed at how so-and-so has changed over the years.  All of this is a semi-long ramble to explain why I include stories such as the following:  because I just want to remember them.

Dave is the grade eight teacher at our Catholic school.  Because of this, the last month (and particularly the final two weeks) of school are a blur of overnight class trips, late night report card writing, very little sleep for Dave and graduation preparations.  The last part always makes me laugh because it proves that, no matter how many degrees one might hold, the vocation of teaching will inevitably come down to scissors, construction paper and glue.  Last night Dave sat in the midst of blue and green construction paper balloons (cut by Hannah) gluing on photos of graduands.  (That's one of the places a BA in Philosophy, a Bachelor in Commerce and a BEd can land a person - in the midst of dollar store merchandise.)  Anyway, the balloons aren't the point; although it sure is nice that the oldest kids are able enough to help with the more inane tasks associated with Dave's career.  What I really want to talk about is the graduation mass scheduled for tonight at our parish.

If you have ever attended our country church, you might have felt a little like you stepped back in time.  For one thing, it is full, and not just with members of the Silver Tsunami.  There are actually a ton of young people and the altar is often packed with boy altar servers.  In fact, we have over forty of them.  The most notable characteristic about these young men and boys is that, of the forty, only around 13 of them go to school.  The rest are homeschooled.  Consequently, Dave realized a few days ago that he would definitely need our three boys to serve at the graduation mass tonight.  The boys love to serve, particularly Joseph who is still basking in the light of his First Holy Communion.  They are actually so eager to serve (and so viciously competitive to get an actual job at mass) that they leave for Sunday mass an hour early and run the mile that it takes them to get there.  As many of you might know, there are several jobs for which one can hope as an altar server.  At our church the boys can vie to be one of the two who actually serve the altar, or one of the two torch bearers for the Gospel reading, the cross bearer or one of the eight or so torch bearers.  There is one job for which none of our boys hopes:  the ringer of the bells.  In fact, they have a sort of phobia regarding the bells; looks of terror flit across their faces when the job is mentioned.

At our church, there are two sets of bells:  one consists of four bells welded together to a handle that result in a ring-y sort of sound and a second set of gongs that are struck with a mallet to produce a tonal pattern.  (I'm sorry, I am lost as to technical names.)  These bells are rung at four separate times throughout the liturgy.  In a sense, it is the bells that separate the altar boys from the altar men.  Our three sons are somewhere between altar boys and altar lads (a new category imagined by their mother):  even after years of service, not quite ready to ascend to the spotlight of the bells.  I have to concede to Joseph, though.  Joe is so possessed of self-confidence that if he were asked to preach the homily, he would shrug his shoulders and respond, "I knew you were going to ask me some day."
 A few weeks ago, Benjamin was overcome by a brief moment of Joseph-style confidence and willingly accepted the bell position.  When he strode forward to his bell perch, my eyes widened, my jaw clenched and I sank a little lower in the pew.  Dave devoutly closed his eyes and slowed his breathing.  I could see Hannah's body language clearly expressing a sarcastic, "Oh, great." If she could have thrown up her hands in exasperation, she would have.  What didn't help was that this particular Sunday was a major feast day and the Eucharistic prayer was much longer and differed from what Ben was used to hearing.  During a normal Sunday there are four cues for the bells:  the first is when the priest invokes the Holy Spirit and the ring-y bells are rung; the second is when the Host is elevated and the gong is struck; again the gong is struck at the elevation of the Chalice; and the last ring-y bells are rung when the priest consumes the Host.  As a mother of so many altar servers, I have forced myself to memorize these cues.

I prayed that Ben had done the same.  The priest began the prayer and Ben waited in anticipation for his liturgical debut.  I wondered if I could somehow will him into the correct cues by staring hard enough at his back.  The introduction lengthened and lengthened and Ben waited and waited.  Until he could wait no longer.  Having lost all sense of time and place, Ben grabbed the bells and in a grand gesture rang those bells for all to hear.  At the wrong place.  As our priest prayed that the souls of the faithfully departed would be admitted into heaven, Ben chose to ring out their entry with as grand a flourish as he could manage.  Father looked over his shoulder with a quizzical look, trying to identify the rogue, and possibly maverick, server.  Ben tentatively replaced the bells and fumbled his way through the rest of the mass.  I can safely say that it was the longest Eucharistic prayer of my life.  A woman approached me afterward to tell me how appropriate Ben's miscue had been:  "Isn't there a legend that when a bell rings an angel gets its wings?"  Yes, yes, there is.  I just don't think we're supposed to promote it during mass.

Now we arrive at tonight.  Our boys realized that they would be serving this mass solo and that one of them would have to ring those bells.  This became the topic of a spirited dinner conversation.  Ben, having sworn off of all bells for good, took his name out of the game and left Jacob and Joe to decide who would take the job.  Jacob suggested phoning one of the homeschoolers to come and help, while Joe inexpertly volunteered for the role.  Hannah suggested that the ringer watch her in the congregation for the right cues.  I told them that, if I attended, I would cough or run my hand through my hair so that they would know when to ring.  I don't think that we reached a final decision, although I imagine that Jacob will have to take the bells in hand and Hannah will prayerfully support him from the pew.  Dave will consider this the least of his problems and I will sit at home and watch Netflix.  Either way, one of our boys will accede to the status of altar man tonight; may the best lad win.

(Sorry for the positioning of the photo.  I am technically inept and have to run to the grocery store, so this is what you are left with.)