When The Mass Came to My House

My mother recently sent me a box filled with photographs from my childhood. Amid the out of focus shots, scary 80’s hair, and pictures with livestock

were the pictures from my First Communion.

It’s funny how clearly I can remember that day in perfect detail – from my First Confession in the spare bedroom filled with boxes to the Mass said at our coffee table.

My father was in the Navy, and we moved two weeks before my 1st grade class was scheduled for our First Holy Communions. The Navy doesn’t wait for sacraments, so our priest graciously agreed to move mine up to the weekend (three days) before we moved so that family could attend.  When the church became unavailable for reasons I can’t recall (I was 6 and that was a long time ago, but I think it had something to do with storm damage.) the Mass was moved to our house.

Fr Lee came over early in the afternoon to hear my Confession. The only place with a door and no annoying older brother was the spare bedroom filled with moving boxes. I was too nervous to look him in the face, so we sat cross-legged and back-to-back on the floor. Afterwards, he supervised the rearranging of our living room furniture for Mass as I got dressed and Mom curled my hair.

My parents had invited everyone we knew, whether they were Catholic or not, so that my First Communion Mass would be filled with people we loved, and so we could tell them all good-bye. It was a simple Mass without grand music, just my dad’s guitar and the voices of everyone there, but it was also one of the most beautiful Masses I’ve ever attended.

I have often thought back to the memory of that evening, and the graces that came with it – this one perfect moment in time when Jesus came to our house, and we invited everyone we knew to meet Him there.