One of the things about state schools is that it takes some extra thinking when it comes to holy days. I grew up in the Catholic system. Any required church or training for sacraments was baked-in. You didn’t have to think about it.
It’s different now. Any bonus Mass takes logistics. Take Ash Wednesday, for example. This year, we had a choice of two Masses, 9am and 11am.
‘We should go to 11,’ says Pippi, who is nine years old and thinks she’s the boss of the family. ‘We have an incursion on Wednesday.’
’Yeah, we have an incursion at 9.30.’ Penny, her twin, is nodding enthusiastically.
‘A policeman is coming to talk to our class. It will be so cool!’
‘It will be really cool.’
I hesitate. I could take the girls separately at 11am, but that would throw my whole morning out. I keep saying I need to protect my writing time. It would have to be 9am.
WE CAN DO THIS
Morning Masses tend to be short, and the school is close. If we leave without stopping to chat to anyone, we could make it back by 9.30. Easy. We can definitely do this.
Things are off to a good start. The priests in our parish are young and energetic. Sometimes they channel this energy into homilies that are – well – thorough. But this one’s blessedly brief. We move on to the next stage of the liturgy. I realise, with a jolt, that I hadn’t factored the distribution of ashes into my time estimations. Pippi fidgets beside me.
The priest is very enthusiastic in his ashing. Everyone has black crosses covering a goodly proportion of their forehead real estate. Pippi nudges me as we return to our pew. ‘Can we go now, Mum?’
I shake my head.
‘But we’ve got our ashes. We’ll be late if we don’t go now.’
‘Mass isn’t over. You can’t just ash-and-run.’
‘But Mum . . .’
SUPREME IMPORTANCE
I try to communicate the supreme importance of the divine presence in the Sacrament of the Eucharist into a single silencing eyebrow. Pippi subsides.
But now it’s the Eucharistic Prayer and Penny’s fidgeting.
‘Can I have your phone, Mum?’
‘What? No!’
‘I just want to check the time.’
‘No.’
‘But I just want to check the time.’
We are interrupted by a squawk from Pippi. She’s already looking at my phone. ‘Nine twenty-three! It’s nine twenty-three! We are going to be late! We’re going to miss it!’
Accordingly, our recitation of The Lord’s Prayer is punctuated by loud sobs from Pippi. I think she may have actually gnashed her teeth. Penny remains quiet, but is very pale.
TIME TO GO
We don’t stay for the final blessing. After Communion, we sail on out of the church. Don’t come at me. I’m doing everybody in there a favour, trust me.
Pippi is still crying loudly as we pull into school. There’s an impressive-looking patrol car in the teacher’s carpark. Penny moans. I don’t know what secret wisdom senior constable Jenkins has to impart to this class of Grade Fours, but surely it isn’t worth this level of angst?
We dash inside. It’s 9.40am, The principal stands outside the classroom with some prospective parents. They’re doing a tour.
‘Where’s the police?’ I am almost shouting at the school principal. ‘Are the police here yet?’
Principal Steve shoots a concerned look, first at the parents on tour and then at my forehead. The school secretary overhears me as she walks past. ‘The police are seeing the Grade Threes first. The Grade Fours aren’t till 10.30am.’
It’s not until I’m back in the car that I fully exhale. I look at the vanity mirror. It strikes me that a woman running into the classroom with what looks like a heavily bruised forehead barking about the police is not the best first impression I could have made.
Holy day? I need a holiday.
Kate Moriarty is a freelance columnist, author and reviewer. Under Kate Solly, her latest novel The Paradise Heights Craft Store Stitch-Up is available now.