Monday was All Souls Day. It follows All Saints Day, and commemorates the faithful departed–those who die in God’s faith and friendship. At our parish, it is always marked by a mass and simple reception. Family of parishioners who died during the year are invited as well as anyone from the parish who may want to attend. It’s solemn and beautiful. I was fortunate to be asked to sing at the mass. Along with Holy Thursday, it’s really my favorite.

In addition to my participation, about a month or so ago, our pastor asked if I would bring the baby. He wanted to use him as a “prop” during the homily. I agreed, but with the disclaimer that I could not make any guarantees regarding the level of cooperation of my six-month-old son. Actually, the exchange was more like, “Are you sure you know what you’re asking?” He assured me he did, and that he could roll with it. And I knew he could, so I said, “Okay.”

My parents sat with the baby during mass, since I was in front singing and Richard was teaching religious education. My dad’s magic touch made Clifford very relaxed, and when it was time to hand him off to Monsignor, the baby just nuzzled and got cozy.

Monsignor stood in his white vestments and gave his entire homily holding our son, who comfortably nuzzled securely in his arms. Monsignor reminded all of the many sad people in the congregation that they should find peace knowing that their loved one is being held by God, much like he was holding Clifford. To help you understand the visual impact, you should know that our pastor stands just shy of 6’8″. His large hand covers almost all of the baby’s back. It was easy to picture God’s strength and loving care.

His homily was comforting and wonderful; the baby remained so calm and pretty much moved on cue. It seemed he was responding to what was being said. At one point, when Monsignor mentioned heaven, Clifford even looked up and all around at the ceiling of the church. He also seemed completely unfazed by the hundreds of people in attendance. Occasionally looking out at the people, then back at his tall protector, then at me. I was afraid that he would see me and cry, but he didn’t. He did just what God needed him to do in that moment.

A day after the mass, I received this note from a dear friend from church

I am still in awe of what we all witnessed at the Memorial mass. I know a lot of others are too. I’m sure there were many in the church who, in their grief, have doubted God’s real presence with us. If Fr. Mike’s and Clifford’s homily did not dispel those doubts, I don’t know what could. I felt His presence so strongly I wanted to shout it to the rooftop!

Thank you for sharing your beautiful son. ( I want to say that he could be a great actor someday, but I have a feeling God has something better in store for him!)

It has always been my wish for all of my children that God use each one for the purpose for which He intended and created them. I just often foolishly think of it in terms of them when they grow up. Thanks to our dear pastor, the Holy Spirit and my  bouncing baby boy, my eyes have been opened … once again.

Reader Beware: The contents of this message are rated PG  (Thanks to my 4-year-old son)

Preface: Richard’s dad’s name is also Richard. But he goes by Dick.

Henry the VIII the Artist – Chapter One.

On Mother’s Day, my dear niece Elizabeth informed that my angelic son, Henry, called her a “dickhead.” I was shocked. I had no idea where he would have heard such a thing. I apologized on his behalf and assured her that he did not know what he was saying. I decided to let it go. If you know Henry, like I know Henry, it is sometimes better NOT fuss about things he says – because the bigger the deal you make out of it, the more charge he’ll get out of it and well … you get the picture.

The next day I was folding laundry and out of the blue my son asked me if dick was a bad word and what it meant. I cautiously explained that it was a bad word, one a Hass child does not say. And as a simple matter-of-fact, I  told him the meaning of the word and that we do not call people bad or even proper names that refer to our body parts. He chewed on that for a moment.

“What about Grandpa Dick?” he asked, then proceeded to remind me that sometimes I even call Richard “Dickie.”

True, I told him. I explained that Grandpa Dick is not a bad word because the name Dick is also short for Richard. But that’s not the same as calling someone–who is not named Richard–dick. He seemed satisfied and told me he understood.

Two days later, I heard Henry say to Mary Claire, “You’re a Grandpa Dick.” Foiled on a technicality.

Chapter Two.

Yesterday Henry decided to test his luck again and within earshot (in the minivan), he called Mary Claire a dickhead. Realizing that I heard him, he immediately tried to back track.

“I don’t remember what that word means,” he quickly defended, trying to disappear from site in my rear-view mirror while held captive in his car seat.

“I believe you do,” I reminded.

“No I don’t know no I don’t know no I don’t know,” he blurted. He thinks if he talks fast enough he can erase time (and bad deeds).   I informed him (calmly) that when we returned home he would have a 20-minute time-out, and we would have to have a serious conversation with Daddy. His choice of language was not befitting a Hass child and was totally unacceptable. He shed a few tears. After a few moments in silence, he quietly confessed.

“I do know what it means. I do know what it means. Let’s not talk to Daddy. It’s okay. I know, I know, I know.”   Nice try boy.

We arrived home as Richard was pulling up the driveway. Richard and I sat down with Henry and I explained the situation. I tried to enlist Henry’s help, but he pretended he couldn’t remember what the issue was – the whole time he kept nuzzling up to me and showering me with smooches and hugs.

I stood my ground, and he was not able to charm his way out of his punishment. He finally stood still and listened to what Richard had to say and agreed he would change his ways. After our conversation, he willingly headed upstairs for his 20-minute sentence. On the way, he apologized to Mary Claire.

After about 20 minutes of quiet (something which with Henry is always worrisome), I went up to check on him. He had picked up his entire room and greeted me with a proud smile. “Look, I even made my bed all by myself,” he boasted. I got down on my knees and told him I was proud that he could do that. He shows me all the time what a big boy he is becoming. I asked him to connect that wonderful brain power to his mouth, so he can learn to stop himself from saying things that are not acceptable. He made a cross on my forehead (we do that as a blessing) and genuinely said he would try.

Then he showed me his chalkboard. On it was a work of art.

“That’s Mom smiling at me,” he said. I admired the drawing. Then I asked him what was supposed to be on my shirt in the drawing and he replied:

“Oh. I drew you naked!” Oh! Henry!

In the photograph, Henry is meditating. Don’t ask.