What Good Little Help Can Be

by Dan Masterton

I’m not exactly sure why, but this Sunday’s Gospel is one of those Gospel stories that I know well, that sticks with me even when I haven’t heard it in a while. The story of the loaves and fishes, or the feeding of the multitude or the four or five thousand, or the multiplication of the loaves – it’s one whose arc is burned into my Scriptural memory. (How do some stick so well while others fade so quickly?)

On the one hand, this is a comfort, because it’s a story I’ve thought about a lot and reflected on in a number of ways. On the other hand, this can cause me to tune out in re-hearing it, and especially in hearing yet another homily about it.

But I’ll give my dear pastor some serious credit – he offered a fresh angle, at least at one point in his unnecessarily lengthy reflection (ha!).

In reflecting on this story, I often fixate on the disparity between the high quantity of people (thousands) and the low quantity of food (a few bread loaves and some fish) and contemplate how this gap is addressed. As Christ blessed this food, the scarcity became abundance, just in Jesus’ offering it to God and then to these people.

But Fr. Scott took us back a step before that, to where the good ole disciples – relatable dummies, like us – have the gaul to backtalk Jesus and doubt the whole equation. Not only do they question what good these loaves and fish will do for a large crowd; they also snarkily quip that “200 days’ wages’ worth of food would not be enough for each of them to have a little.”

Fr. Scott suggested this is the kind of comment that you make when you’re sort of trying to be nice but failing horribly at it. Six months’ salary couldn’t feed this crowd, man.

He then also threw out this script-flip: imagine a family that is scrimping and saving for a vacation. The parents are tossing change in a jar. They’re skipping coffees and meals out and putting money aside to take the family somewhere special. Then when they sit down and count the money, it doesn’t quite add up to be enough. So one of the kids, worried that this vacation may not pan out, scurries off to his or her room to grab their piggy bank and dump out its contents to add them to the family kitty. The parents know as they watch a few coins and bills tumble out that it’s not very much and won’t make a big difference. But in the pure gesture of generosity (perhaps tinted by a bit of a child’s self-serving but understandable desire to go on vacation), the parents affirm the child and find some new resolve to get creative and find the best solution to make this happen. Maybe they sacrifice another item like a trip to the nail salon or a round of golf; maybe they return some recently purchased clothes or forego a date night; and they make their goal and take the trip.


You could imagine a frustrated or disappointed parent reacting to the child in this story the way the disciples react to the child in the Gospel: the dummy disciples literally say “what good” is this tiny bit of food? Jesus — seeing at once the giant crowds, the defiant disciples, and the boy with his bit of bread and fish — is acting more like these patient parents. Rather than laughing or rolling their eyes or condescendingly patting a child on the head, there’s a calm and constructive reaction.

In the story, Jesus simply directs everyone to relax and prepare to eat. Somewhere in the midst of Jesus’ blessing and the food distribution, this root gesture of generosity becomes turns the five loaves and two fish into sufficient food to feed thousands.

My high school theology teacher, the great Mrs. King, taught us how Scripture stories can often be understood naturally, supernaturally, and both at once. Maybe people had brought food that they didn’t intend to eat or share while listening and they changed their minds and offered it around to their neighbors in the crowds; maybe God’s power miraculously increases the quantity of this bit of bread and fish that Jesus blessed; maybe it’s some combination of the two.

But in this hearing, my thoughts go to the act of generosity and the response to it. When someone offers help, whether it’s a little help or a lot of help, honor the offer with warmth and affection and build on it. Even if it is a drop in the bucket, let acts of outreach and good be the catalysts for creativity, zeal, and renewal in whatever tall tasks are before you.

Try to avoid snark, naysaying, and sour reactions. Seek instead the creative, constructive action by which Jesus feeds the hungry and meet the needs of all who gather to seek God.

Grace Was, Is Now, and Ever Shall Be

by Dan Masterton

Last week, my wife and I celebrated our ninth wedding anniversary. We, of course, wanted to step out on our own to celebrate and enjoy an evening together.

Now, we are blessed that our parents are able and willing to babysit often. I stay at home with the kids six out of seven days most weeks, but during my one day on-site for my part-time job, my dad and Katherine’s mom take turns covering the kids for the day.

Additionally, a grandparent sometimes will come take a girl to tumbling or dance class, take the kids out to a lunch, or make a playdate so we can run errands, take an appointment, or even maybe sneak a quick date. These chunks of aid are eminently helpful. However, my dad is 45 minutes away, and her mom lives out of state and comes up to her second home here part-time only.

So, one of my summer bucket list items was to find a non-grandparent babysitter locally, so that we’d have another avenue for covering the kids and getting out on our own once in a while. I turned to our excellent park district, whose employees are always so well trained and great with our kids. I looked particularly to our great swim school, where the young people are awesome with the kids, are trained lifeguards (so certified in CPR), and already have my kids for lessons. We worked it out with one of our favorite teachers to come over and do a little one-hour trial run and then hired her on for our anniversary night.

Thanks for reading A Restless Heart! Tune in next week to see if I can resist the urge to write about my kids! Odds are usually not great.

Our seven-year-old, Lucy, was excited for a new play-friend, and she understands how it’s just for a few hours and helps mom and dad a lot by letting us step out. Our clingier four-year-old, Cecilia, thought the babysitter would come but that mom and dad would stay home, too — alright, bonus play-friends! We talked her down a bit to straighten her out, and when the babysitter arrived, she had claimed her new friend for a game of checkers before our babysitter could even take off her sandals.

We made sure everyone was set and comfortable and scooted off to our cooking class and dinner. Honestly, we barely thought twice about the kids’ happiness or safety while we were away. We didn’t feel the need to check in, and we only got one text, after big girl bedtime: “Little update: everything is great!”

We came home at the appointed time with all three girls asleep and a smiling babysitter ready to head home. It was a piece of cake all around. The next day, they shared a bit about the fun and games they had while we were gone, and it sounded like a smooth, happy night.

Then, a few days after the fact, while we were driving to my seven-year-old’s ice skating lesson, Lucy blurted a story, as she often does: “Daddy, when we said our nighttime prayer, Miss *** said that when she got oil on her forehead she picked Saint Lucy. And her sister picked Saint Cecilia.”

Wait, did we accidentally hire a Christian, maybe even Catholic, baby sitter?! Honestly, I wasn’t thinking at all of what religion these young people might be; I just wanted a kind, warm, trained babysitter. But, hey, I’ll take it! Cool. Also, you gotta love a seven-year-old’s summary of Confirmation (or maybe her parroting of a teen’s simplified explanation of the Sacrament for a little one).

But wait, wait — did the kids make sure they said their bedtime prayer even when mom and dad weren’t home?! Whoa, alright! Way to go, kids! It wasn’t hard to imagine my scrupulous, self-aware, rule-following Lucy telling her babysitter that we say a bedtime prayer. It also wasn’t hard to imagine my bulldozer, brutish, hyperactively itinerant Cecilia telling the babysitter that she gets to say the bedtime prayer — Ceci often cuts Katherine and me off as we try to begin with the Sign of the Cross, and then Ceci proclaims the prayer with excessive volume and speed.

So, our bedtime prayer is simple — a basic formula my late mom made up for my brothers and me that I repurposed for our family: God bless mom, dad, Lucy, Ceci, and Brigid, all our grandmas and grandpas, aunts and uncles, cousins, and all our friends. Thank you, God. Amen.

My tack-on is that I’ve long loved intercessory prayer, strengthened especially by the way the Notre Dame Folk Choir (which Katherine and I met as members of) would end every rehearsal with communal prayer and the invocation of Sts. Cecilia and Brigid(!). So at the end of our prayer, we have all our kids invoke all their patrons: St. Lucy, St. Cecilia, and St. Brigid, pray for us!

This is a little graphic I made to frame and keep at gramma’s house for the kids. It needs… updating.

I’d say we are fairly low-key and casual about our household faith. When I was a kid, my parents took us to Mass every week, sent us to Catholic school, and tried to set a steady, understated example of faith. That approach made a big impact on me, and it informs how I try to raise my kids in the faith. Our main habits are Sunday Mass, little chats in the car, prayer before meals, and bedtime prayer. And even without a reminder from me, even without a note on the babysitter’s agenda, the kids said their bedtime prayers on their own. Huzzah!

Sometimes, as Cecilia clumsily and proudly invokes the great women after whom we named these girls, I imagine these three saints in heaven jogging to meet each other. Perhaps there’s some usual meeting spot where they enjoy hearing earthly pleas for intercession. Maybe Lucy and Brigid are already waiting there and Cecilia is rushing to catch up. But they meet each other, embrace, and gently receive these loving pleas from the little mouths of my kiddos and our family. And it consoles me to invoke such women over and over again over the lives of my kiddos. And especially to imagine their mixed, sarcastic, good-humored reactions to our humble pleading.

And even more, I don’t think praying is like making wishes on a genie lamp; I don’t necessarily think prayer achieves things that prayerlessness fails to accomplish (I don’t think prayer saves houses from tornadoes while others are wrecked, and I don’t think prayer cures some cancers while others are stricken). I believe prayer is a self-opening to help you become more self-aware of God’s abiding presence, God’s ever-flowing love, and of God’s moving grace and Spirit which catalyze love as it moves in us and between us. I think prayers of intercession are the turning of our hearts toward models of faith — people who went before us who are so connected with God that their dwelling with God forever brings us to these realities of God with a different richness and directness.

I don’t think our night away and the kids’ and babysitter’s night in would’ve been disastrous without prayer. But I do think they were joyful and peaceful with prayer. I believe that such a small, simple, pure moment is part of an arc of grace. It can be tempting to think of grace and miracles as being wild, extraordinary, untold, epic events; I think more often of grace as the lattice grid that holds up the newly built and paved road, the wooden framework on to which drywall and siding are added in home construction.

And I don’t think of grace as something that is the response that only comes after some later stimulus. I think grace was somehow moving as we looked for and paired with a babysitter, as she first came over and played with my girls, and as we all enjoyed this night in two different places. I think this little moment of prayer is just as much as a root of grace as it is a destination. And I believe the sense and awareness of this trajectory of grace, of this movement and God and God’s love, is the power of prayer.

On Innocent Eucharistic Bystanders

by Dan Masterton

You know those stories and memes about families boarding a plane with a baby or a toddler and giveaways for nearby folks? For those who haven’t traveled with a little one in their charge, it can push even the least humiliate-able among us toward the edge.

Outstanding religious reporter and new dad Jack Jenkins pays witness to the phenomenon in this Thread.

In these stories, the parents will distribute little goody bags to those seated around them. It might include some snacks or treats, maybe a pair of ear plugs, and note from the family, or even “from the kid,” with a tongue-in-cheek apology and thank you. It’s their way of trying to preempt the frustration or anger of these innocent bystanders to the calamity that may unfold as the tiny human embarks on this flight.

The very-online-discourse that follows these sometimes viral stories would oscillate wildly, as such discourse is wont to do.

Thanks for reading A Restless Heart! Sometimes, my posts aren’t about parenting and children - right? At least a little of the time? Yeah I’m a Catholic dad. It comes out a bit from time to time.

The support would come: families need to travel, too, and it’s nice to think of others who didn’t choose to travel with little kids; it’s a conversation starter and small gift that can help smooth out or prevent conflicts before people get salty.

Then the criticisms would fly, too, from these others: I didn’t choose to fly with kids, and this fun-sized candy bar doesn’t change my annoyance at being near them; don’t try to apologize or butter me up because you know your kid is going to raise hell; figure out a way to keep your kid quiet, or maybe take a car or train next time.

Then there’d even be the meta-discourse: don’t apologize for your kids, just bring them and people can deal! As if confronting simmering problems that both sides are likely keenly aware of can never be a good thing… (Though I admit this put-my-head-down-and-parent and cross my fingers that others are chill is mostly my strategy with my kids on planes.)

While good conversations need to cover lots of ground and various angles, these little comment-section debates can lose the thread. That thread, I’d say, is that families and children need to travel by plane sometimes, and we all need to find our ways to accept and work with this as we travel, whether as parents of small children trying to optimize the transaction or co-passengers finding an understanding of it.

And that’s kind of how I feel about kids at Mass sometimes.

I hear and read stories about people’s awful experiences being scolded at Mass for their kids’ irreverence — criticisms of kids who can’t sit still, can’t stay quiet, or can’t focus on the readings or the Eucharistic prayer. I hear and read stories of some communities’ exceptional hospitality — pews with cards that welcome families and offer directions to nursing rooms, bathrooms, and quiet areas; hospitality ministers who offer special worship aids or assist with choosing ideal seating; Eucharistic Ministers who pastorally meet and bless pre-first-communicant children during communion.

As these stories of derision and affirmation swirl, I hope those who struggle to find comfort around kids at Mass as well as those who proudly bring their kids and/or embrace the proximity of others’ kids don’t lose the thread. That thread, I’d say, is that families and children need to be at Mass, and we all need to find our ways to embrace this as we pray at Mass, whether as parents of small children or simply as fellow Christians.

Kids need to be at Mass, and kids should be at Mass. Except for contagious illness, parents should never think twice about bringing their kids to Mass, especially not by discouragement from others’ real, supposed, or perceived annoyance! (I suppose we can debate the merits of “cry rooms” another time — it won’t shock you to learn I’m not a fan!), but even cry rooms are at Mass.)

This past Sunday, I was at Mass with all three of my kids and my dad, who wanted to join us while my wife was out of town. The two big girls were very into their trusty kids’ worship aids, but they were very high-need — questions about the activities’ directions, ostentatious desires to share their progress, confusions about getting wrong answers, and more, all while we grown-ups were doing Catholic calisthenics and juggling a nap-vetoing-six-month-old.

The church at our parish, St. Elizabeth Seton, in Naperville, IL.

We were in the second-to-last-row, about where we usually are in our church, and a middle-aged couple was right behind us. Though I never made eye contact or heard them say anything, my mind auto-completed some supposed thoughts of theirs as our activity swirled and our gazes rarely pointed toward the sanctuary. As they knelt down behind us and their arms leaned onto the top of our pew in prayer, I even loaded up my hypothetical reply to their supposed frustration that maybe you shouldn’t sit in the back row if you want to really focus.

In reality, all I received was patient smiles.

As I gave up trying to soothe my baby and handed her to grandpa for waking time, I tried to signal to him to unwrap her swaddle. He didn’t notice, so I signaled my oldest daughter to signal him. She didn’t notice either. So the man behind us tapped my dad on his shoulder for me and pointed him my way, without my even begging for the help.

When we reached the Sign of Peace and I finished crawling over church bags and kneelers and spilled crayons to greet each family member, I next turned around to these neighbors. As he shook my hand, the man said as his Sign of Peace, “You’re doing a great job.” Then as she shook my hand, the woman just said, “Peace, Dad.”

I just laughed at myself and my crooked operating system. In their Christian charity, they made my morning.

And in their simple gesture, they modeled what we can do for one another — all of us for every neighbor, but particularly innocent Eucharistic bystanders to parents and families and little kids at Mass. Abide in the communion together. Pay witness to the mess and joy and turmoil and laughter. And, when it’s not intrusive or presumptuous, offer the little bit of help that we might need and may not think to ask for.

I don’t necessarily want you to reach in and attempt physical touch as a means of calming my riled child down. I do want you to hand me the crayon my 4-year-old inadvertently rolled under your pew.

I don’t necessarily want you to advise me on how best to manage their energy. I do want you to smile, wave, and laugh as the kids catch your eye, or even affirm my kids (or my wife and me) if you have it in you.

I don’t necessarily want a long lesson on parenting. I do want to hear your stories of your spouse or partner, your kids, your days busting it to Mass, and how you can identify with the commitment we’re making to being here together as a family.

A friend joked, “A church that isn’t crying is a church that might be dying.” I think that might be true demographically.

I’d say instead, or even more so, any local faith community where its members are not in sync in their communal worship or their community life — especially in the ways that help everyone feel welcome as they are to strive to pray together — is fractured and disjunctive. A church that isn’t journeying together may be drifting apart.

When you see families and kids at Mass, whether it’s smooth sailing or a struggle, whether it’s quiet calm or cacophony, don’t be afraid to affirm, encourage, or compliment them — if for nothing else, than for their witness in showing up and being there together. I can attest that each positive comment can go a long way.

Collecting Another Martyr

by Dan Masterton

What Catholic doesn’t love a good saint? As for me, I’ve long been drawn to the martyrs.

The word martyr comes from old words meaning “witness,” as in the idea of seeing or knowing something and attesting to it by your actions and words. 

The canonized-saint-martyrs, or “red martyrs,” gave witness to our faith to the point of death. I think while the magnitude of a martyr’s death and the magnitude of such faith is something worthy of contemplation — and the book and movie Silence are one of the best ways to enter this reflection — most of us who live privileged lives because of our race, our country of origin or residence, our stability, and other reasons, too, will likely not find ourselves in any situation near probable martyrdom. 

Other martyrs — sometimes called “white martyrs” — give witness to the faith in a steadfast way that may cause them to experience resistance, rejection, ostracization, or other forms of hardship.

I think the spiritual life of those of us in such privileged positions as to be able practice our faith freely and stably are called to consider how we can then use our privilege to practice this faith boldly, confidently, and attractively. Especially for Catholics, who rarely feel called to street-corner preaching or overt acts of proselytizing, our stronger evangelization comes from lives lived with great charity and service, that are ripe with strong relationships with self, others, and God.

I believe the examples of the saints — from those who lived full lives to death from natural causes all the way to those cut down by the perpetrators of persecutions — offer an accessible and helpful way to consider how to live this out. I feel drawn to the martyrs because I find their challenging circumstances, rather than shaking them down to shells of themselves, embolden them to profound apostolic creativity and inspiring resilience. And that’s what I want to grow into in my heart of faith.

My personal favorites?

St. Maximilian Kolbe is the Marian messenger of Auschwitz whose persistent fidelity led to humble Masses within the concentration camp walls, offering himself up for others’ chores and work, and ultimately volunteering himself as a victim for a punitive execution by the guards — and his prayerful vision showed him the awaiting dual crowns of red martyrdom and white martyrdom, an interesting combination that earned him the distinction of being a “martyr of charity.”

St. Óscar Romero is the justice-seeking advocate of the Salvdordan campesinos in the country’s civil war, who wrestled with being a permissive leader for an entitled Church and ultimately chose instead to call out injustices, challenge oppressive and violent rulers, and stand with the persecuted and faithful poor of his country to the point of being assassinated by these threatened leaders.

And now this past weekend, I had the chance to meet a new hero. While in Oklahoma City, celebrating the ordination to the priesthood of my wife’s cousin, we joined him at the Shrine of Blessed Stanley Rother, where he celebrated his second Mass (after his first at his home parish) as a votive Mass to Bl. Stanley in the chapel where the altar is built on Bl. Stanley’s tomb.

Bl. Stanley is a modern martyr. He was a diocesan priest of Oklahoma City who wished to serve in a diocesan mission Guatemala in the mid-late 20th century. After war broke out and he persisted in ministering in to the indigenous people in their village with charity and love, he became a marked man and was recalled home to the US. He insisted on returning, famously declaring that “the shepherd cannot run.” Shortly after his return to his community there, Bl. Stanley’s home was attacked, and he was killed. The local community in Guatemala asked that his heart remain there, so his heart was interred with them while his remains were buried in Oklahoma, now within the shrine built in his name.

As we joined in the votive Mass, I was taken by the beautiful mural painted above the altar in this chapel. There, Bl. Stanley and Christ reach out for each other in their heavenly bond. Gathered around the two is a beautiful chorus of diverse martyrs, celebrating the deep and wide reach of Christ to the hearts of people all across the world in all times.

After Mass, I sat down up front to bask in the witness of these men and women. There I picked out Maximilian and Oscar, mixed in with others — I thought I spotted St. Peter, perhaps Blessed Miguel Pro, and St. Joan of Arc. If you look closely who do you see?

 

The Martyrs Mural in the chapel of Bl. Stanley Rother Shrine

I could stare at these communions of saints all day, spiritually orbiting around the witness of each heart and relishing the strength of their gathered witness as it speaks to mine. It calls to my mind the luminous high altar built around the pilgrim’s statue of St. James at the cathedral in Santiago, Spain, the church at the end of the Camino pilgrimage routes; it invokes the compilation of tapestries in the Cathedral of the Holy Angels in Los Angeles that mixes canonized saints with ordinary, unnamed people, all go whom face the altar; it also awakens in me the starkly cold yet inspiringly warm sense I had in two visits to St. Maximilian’s death cell in Auschwitz.

The contemplation of such witness can ground our faith today, point us toward the faith we must strive to live tomorrow, and remind us of the great faith that is possible. It’s a faith that’s been modeled by these profound witnesses, these sisters and brothers who go before us.

The Temptation to Fill the Calendar

by Dan Masterton

It’s summertime, and the livin’ isn’t easy.

Gone are the days of 8:55 drop-off and 3:30 pickup. Here are the days of planning minimally two different activities for my bigger little kids.

My Sunday nights at the dry erase weekly calendar resemble the Charlie Day and Zach Galifianakis memes. There I stand, paving multiple avenues for the week’s days by which surplus energy and inexhaustible drive might be utilized and somewhat spent by the end of each day. This is largely a doomed proposition from the jump, for our two non-infant children are acing the whole “we’re not tired” test, filibustering bedtime nearly nightly and proclaiming “I can’t fall asleep” before evening prayers have even been recited and lights have even been dimmed.

For all the exhaustion and endeavoring for creativity in my weary heart (it’s not even July yet?), I am at least decently disposed to the chase. I have a “bucket list” note in my phone of big stuff to try for; my weekly calendar board has magnets labeled with each of our usual haunts (library, zoo, arboretum, children’s museum, etc.); I have flyers and browser bookmarks for the special summer events around town; I have a hitlist of playdate friends to hit up for meet-ups.

Thanks for reading A Restless Heart! My last paycheck bounced! My children — they need wine! Not a Simpsons fan, huh? Don’t worry, you can still enjoy these posts. Also, they’re free, and my family is doing just fine financially.

Ever since my wife and I made the choice that I’d mostly to stay home with the kids, I’ve always been the parent that wants my kids out and about. In part, this is an attempt to pair the direct, personal home time I get with my kids as a stay-at-home parent with the crucial, integral socializing they’d more naturally get if they were usually at a daycare or day-school. This has meant that playgrounds, library storytimes, park district classes, and all manner of social outings are part of the week-in-week-out fabric of my life at home with my kids.

I’m pretty Type-A, pretty organized, pretty resourceful — and this part of me gets to shine and gleam a bit in constructing this puzzle for and with my kids.

Yet, days like yesterday (Monday) come along, too, that leave me a bit flustered, frustrated, and even scared — days when I can’t come up with enough activities. When I drew up this week, I had a big blue circle and a question mark on Monday afternoon. We could hit a new splash pad after swim lessons in the morning — we wouldn’t even need to change! — but after coming home for lunch, there was nothing!

Library time needed to wait until Thursday, the day before we leave for a long weekend trip or else Lucy will read all her books before we even pack. The children’s museum would almost be closed by time we could finish lunch and run over there, so better save that for Tuesday. The special park district event is Wednesday, and the forecast is so hot for Monday that a day at the zoo would be miserable (we’ll go Friday before we pack). So what do we do?

The answer is obvious: nothing.

But I had already written “relax” in for Wednesday afternoon! That was already one module of planned relaxation time at home! Can I have two of those in a week? What madness am I inviting?!

It’s a struggle for me to embrace making fewer plans. But even just typing it out helps me acknowledge my absurdity.

Because of my personality and how my mind works, I am interested in structure, shape, and linear progression to such a degree that I’ve always struggled to play with my kids during these 3s, 4s, and 5s. When they’re younger, the randomness is more easily stomached; when they’re older, the understanding can be more easily reached. In this window, thought, their short attention span, the way they change their minds quickly, the way they set me up to contradict myself or mess up, the way they often can’t quite explain what they’re thinking or want — it eats at me. And I too often come into their playtime and imagined scenarios waiting to get frustrated.

So these lengthy blocks of time at home just feel like extended periods during which I will fall short, trouble our bond, and leave them irked. So I prefer to avoid it — to get out and about, to be playing and moving, to be going from here to there to here to there. In those transactions, I can be the effective cruise director who successfully shepherds them from fun thing to fun thing, and while doing so can more concretely provide the things they need — pre-packed supplies, snacks, water, gear, and more.

It’s a harsh self-characterization that is exaggerated, if still true. But I struggle to welcome the fallow time into our school breaks that we all could use!

Creatives take time away from the blank page and the new canvas to refresh their thinking and output; farmers leave plots of land empty for the soil to regenerate its nutrients and be better for the next crop; priests and religious take sabbaticals to decompress, study, and rest before returning to the field. While there’s many benefits to these things, it’s the fundamental reset and refresh for spirituality that is so crucial — a way to recalibrate and bring to new rest one’s soul.

My kids — and me — need to have this time somewhere in our week-to-week to retain our creativity, to struggle through these bumps in my road with them, and to keep learning how to be bored together and to cultivate fun from that boredom.

In our case, this spat of involuntarily fallow land this time was just right.

It was proper space for Lucy to warmup after being wet at the splash pad by reading next to the big, sunny windows; for Ceci to set up a hair salon and plop me down in her chair for a styling; for Brigid to get a cozy, home-field-advantage nap in her crib in the midst of a nasty sleep regression and the emergence of the feared first tooth. And for me, it was a chance to finish the laundry in the afternoon instead of at 11pm, to empty the dishwasher, and then to just be — in this case, to lay down next to my avid reader, using her Dalmatian slippers as a temporary pillow, and rest for ten minutes, and then to get my bed-head, unwashed, hat-head hair “styled” by a local artisan. And then after everyone was awake and content, we all lounged around, playing in orbit of one another bit by bit.

It’s so tempting to never stop creating, to plant on every square foot of land each season, or to try to serve up activity non-stop. It’s better when that hustle incorporates some empty space and slows or stops for a bit. I’m happy to say that, for a moment, I’m a bit more rested and surely quite freshly coiffed. 

A Little Help with Help

by Dan Masterton

Years ago, amid my day-in-day-out listening of NPR, I heard a story that struck a chord in me as a parent.

The reporter shared how kids whose offers of help and interest in collaboration are welcomed by grown-ups then grow up to be more consistently interested in helping. Essentially, the way you warmly receive and find constructive ways to accept kids’ interest in helping can have a significantly positive impact on their collaborative mindset as they grow and can become a firmer part of their personality.

For all the clichéd or inaccurate insights I’ve heard in seven-plus years of parenting, I really liked this one.

It’s something I had been intentional about as my oldest child, Lucy, got taller and stronger and more coordinated. I remember inviting a freshly-turned-2-year-old Lucy on to a stool to separate pepperonis for me as we mixed up a batch of meat, sauce, and cheese for our homemade rendition of “pizza bread.” She was delighted. It was a job she could handle and that she was excited to do.

That story couple with some early successes practicing this philosophy led me to double down. It became trickier as my middle kiddo then wanted to do and try everything that big sister was doing, but I try to stick to the mindset of finding components and subtasks in these processes that they can reasonably and safely attempt.

Then, one day at church, this philosophy crept into a new area that I wasn’t expecting.

As we prepared the bits of the ritual of baptism for our youngest daughter, Brigid, who was baptized last month on Mothers’ Day, my friend John (then a religious brother and transitional deacon, and now a religious priest) asked us to get a reader for the petitions. I thought for a moment and quickly had the idea — why not have Lucy do it?

My good friend, Cari, who’s been a youth and campus minister for decades, captured an excellent pastoral principle in tidy language: if there’s a role a young person wants to do, even if it’s a role usually filled by an adult, give them the support they’d need and have them try it. This has helped her expand youth engagement, widen youth leadership formation, and accompany young people in becoming stronger people of faith who desire to lead their peers.

My ideals of parenting and her ideals of ministry (which I share and support) coincided here as I took my 7-year-old daughter — who is an avid reader and also is already low-key a model Catholic who loves family faith formation nights and Children’s Liturgy of the Word — and showed her a slate of petitions to read with the congregation.

My wife, Katherine, took her aside to a quiet space to practice the words and clarify the pronunciations. When it came time to read, John unthreaded the microphone out of his vestments to bring it down to her level and hold it for her. And the two of them stood at her sides as she ministered to our little baptismal congregation by serving as a lector.

She did amazing! It was a joy to be a part of. I still remember, at her baptism, welling up as my friend Fr. Kevin prayed that “when the Lord comes, may she go out to meet him with all the saints in the heavenly kingdom.” And this felt like a beautiful step in that direction.

Then, last weekend, we were visiting a big group of our friends on a big vacation together. Our host-friends had their priest-friend out to our houseful of friends, and he said a house Mass for us. The lectors for the readings? Lucy and our eight-year-old cousin. And they did great! And as I beamed, I thought of how our families welcome this thread of kid-help and bring it with us into our lives of faith, including regularly going to Mass to pray together with our families and our faith communities.

These were small moments where a young person had an interest in helping. There was a place where her help could be needed and used, and where her gifts could minister to and serve others. Her help was welcomed and accepted, and her mindset of wanting to help and serve is nurtured, sustained, and hopefully furthered.

I hope we’re sensitive and attentive to offers of help — from little ones, from teens, and even from young adults. And I hope we all bring it thoughtfully into adulthood. I hope we never get so individualized or efficiency-minded or unimaginative that we turn down help. I know I’m prone to making things smooth and slick, and too often that comes at the expense of interaction and collaboration. I’m glad my daughter, my wife, my friends, and my faith could help draw me out of those things in myself and toward this life we ought to live in and with one another.

Do You Know A Guy? I Know A Guy

by Dan Masterton

Have you ever been to a Catholic wedding where it’s all too obvious that the celebrant doesn’t really know the couple? Often, the giveaway is the one-size-fits-all homily, where the Good News is preached, sure, but the pastorally sound thing of connecting explicitly to the couple is flimsy, if attempted at all.

Sure, it’s tempting to blame the priest. Did he even try to get to know them? Does he care about the couple? Is he burnt out and phoning it in? Maybe some of that is true; maybe he’s having an off day; maybe he was a last minute substitute celebrant.

But, have you ever thought — does the couple know the celebrant? Did they try to get to know him? Do they care about him? Are they lukewarm about the Sacrament or about their faith, and phoning it in?

I say this not to take sides but to reframe an oft-lobbed criticism. Have you tried to get to know a priest, religious sister, religious brother, or deacon?

Swings and Misses

Adult parish life is tricky, man.

At my first big boy parish, I tried volunteering to be a Eucharistic Minister and had a rough experience. The folks who did it were insular, cold, and weirdly mistrusting, or at least seemed that way to a 23-year-old me. (They wore albs, processed in with the priest, and sat together in the front pews; when I asked to sit with my girlfriend and then put on a robe and join them at the altar later in Mass, they didn’t want to let me.) And the way they and the rolled-in-two-minutes-before-Mass-and-threw-on-the-vestments pastor conversed in the sacristy was alienating to me. I realized this just as I had decided I was moving away soon, so I just let it slide.

At my second parish, my then-girlfriend and I belonged to an enormous city parish. The church was always packed, and we had a handful or more different priests rotating through as weekend celebrants all the time. In short, I didn’t try to get to know these priests, but I always appreciated that our pre-Mass announcements reintroduced to the celebrant and his ministry placements each time he celebrated Mass!

At my fourth parish, our elderly pastor rarely said more than two words, even when he was glad-handing before or after Mass. Our associate pastor was an energetic, charismatic fellow — nice enough but the kind of fellow who started each conversation with you as if you were meeting for a first time. We connected through the parish council on an idea for a parents-and-kids group, but after his initial word of support, I never heard back on anything again.

This is all to say that even when you take a step toward them, it doesn’t always work out to be besties with priests, for various reasons. But you might wonder — why do I expect that in any way at all?

Home Runs

For one, I grew up in a parish that spoiled me. Our long-serving pastor had essentially been left in place extra-long so that he could take newly-ordained priests under his wing, mentor them, and send them off to become pastors. Additionally, my mom was a second-grade teacher in our parish school, so between the pastor’s being her boss and her preparing half the parish for First Communion, I always felt like I had a strong sense of our priests.

Even more, though, I have had the privilege of being close with Viatorian brothers and priests. The Clerics of St. Viatorare a religious congregation that founded and still run St. Viator High School, my alma mater. Together with lay women and men associates, we strive to walk closely with youth and people who go underserved — I say “we” because I will be one of them after my commitment as a lay associate this fall.

In high school, some of them were my teachers, campus ministers, Sacramental celebrants, and service companions. I think what cemented our connection was the way they very unpretentiously made space for young people to lead and be heard. In high school, I was constantly invited to opportunities that, even now, still seem like major things for a teen, from editing a priest’s book of Gospel reflections to directing a one-day freshmen retreat.

My friend Fr. Corey Brost, CSV baptized Cecilia Jane for us, and then my pal Br. John Eustice, CSV (then a transitional deacon and soon a priest) baptized Brigid Felicity.

Young people often describe our men as “serious yet relatable.” They set an example of being committed to a life of faith, rich in prayer and service, while remaining “normal” guys who aren’t much different from your other friends. For example, my friend Br. John and I have served side by side at a men’s shelter as well as gone to a concert, a live music bar, and plenty of breweries.

I think this healthy connection with the Viatorians is a big part of why my faith is so steady and strong. It’s a natural part of my life in a way that is neither repressed nor overwrought. It’s organically a part of life as a whole. (And honestly, it’s part of why, while I respect and revere the Holy Cross men I’ve known from Notre Dame, from Fr. Jim to Fr. Peter to my classmates, I didn’t latch on to them quite so strongly!)

The Next Wave

I now work part-time with the Viatorians in a small pastoral and clerical role that they flexibly allow me to sculpt around primarily being a stay-at-home parent. One time, when I referred to Br. John, who was then my supervisor, too, my then 4-year-old daughter, Lucy said, “Do you mean brother like how Uncle Tim and Uncle Mike are your brothers?”

Here’s a recent episode of the podcast I produce where John and I discuss his nearly 20 years of religious life as a brother and his formation for priesthood. He’ll be ordained a priest June 8. We mostly behaved ourselves for this recording, and we probably could’ve made a director’s cut for our Patreon subscribers.

It kind of stopped me in my tracks. My instinctive answer? “Yeah… pretty much, buddy.” I briefly explained that he promised to live his life as a model of faith to everyone, in a way trying to be a good sibling or “brother” to everyone. But she wasn’t wrong! And I think it’s largely because she had been around me with the Viatorian guys, she had heard me talk about them and about our work, and she had developed an initial sense of what religious life maybe-kind-of-sort-of is.

In my seven-plus years as a parent, I’ve enjoyed the small but natural ways these positive relationships have suffused into our family life. Once or twice a year, I have a cookout at the house for my Viatorian friends, and priests and brothers are gathered around the same table as my kids. I bring my family to Viatorian Community events, like our Holy Thursday liturgy and dinner. And then there’s the wild card days, like when Br. John brings his table saw over so that he and I can work with my friend to put new baseboards in our bedrooms.

So What?

I often think about how our faith isn’t just meant to be a balm or crutch when things go sideways; in reality, our faith can feel insufficient if we only turn to it in crisis. I value — and try to model — a faith that is steady, that lives everyday, that animates most everything, during ups and downs and, most of all, everything in between

I think incorporating these relationships into one’s broader social life is a big boost to that suffusive, sustainable, solid-borne faith. So, if you didn’t go to Catholic school or you didn’t like Catholic school or you don’t have an in with a religious community of men or women or you have never connected with a priest or religious… where do you start?

Do you have any friends with priest/religious friends? Could you crash a meal or coffee with them?

Do you have any old teachers or youth/campus ministers who you liked? It’s almost a slam dunk that they’d be delightedto hear from you if you reached out.

If not — and this might seem like a wild one — invite your pastor over for dinner.

It might seem crazy, but… I did it once! At our third parish, I wanted to get to know our pastor, and he encouraged us to reach out to introduce ourselves so he wasn’t missing anyone. So I did! And he responded! And we planned a dinner at our place! And we made manicotti! And he brought wine! And he played with our 1-year-old, and she spit up on his shoes! It was lovely. And the subsequent, although often brief, interactions we had every time after felt much less superficial and feigned, especially for an introverted couple like Katherine and me.

It’s a neat thing to give a shot. It’s good for you and your faith life. It’s good for the heart and pastoral sense of a priest, sister, brother, or deacon.

And maybe, if you’re lucky, your new priest-friend will outlive you and preach a non-generic homily at your memorial Mass!