I didn't get one!

Yesterday a day came that I've been dreading for at least three years.

It started out so well: we went to Palm Sunday mass, and Thomas was paying very good attention (for a two-year-old, that is). We talked about the entry to Jerusalem ahead of time, and although he was disappointed to hear that there wouldn't be any donkeys at church, he was interested in the palm leaves. He paid good attention through the procession and even followed along with a good bit of the Passion reading. (I was pointing the pictures out in his picture Bible and whispering the important words.) Despite the length of the Palm Sunday mass, and the fact that it started right before naptime, by the communion rite he was still gamely hanging in there, sitting in the aisle so he could see what the priest was doing and murmuring to himself.

When it was time for communion I showed him how to hold his arms across his chest, and we went forward. By the time we got back to the pew, he was in tears.

"Why didn't he give me one? Why didn't he give me one? I didn't get one!"

This is the one question about the liturgy my time at Notre Dame hasn't prepared me to answer. I'm just left here in my own pain, saying, "Why doesn't he get one?" And I fear that by the time five more years have passed, he'll be left with an indelible impression of his exclusion from the Lord's meal.

The eucharistic celebration shouldn't leave a bad taste in anyone's mouth.