Let Us Eat Cake

by Dan Masterton

This piece was originally published on August 13, 2024.

You ever accidentally overlook the Old Testament? Maybe you’ve dismissed is as “angry God” stories. Maybe you were too spaced out at Mass to plug in before the Gospel. Maybe you just get overwhelmed by ancient city names and descriptions of ethnic peoples in the ancient Middle East.

This past Sunday was one of those lucky Sundays when I was raring and ready to go for that first reading, and it hit me just right. A reading from the First Book of Kings. Ok ok — one of my favorite Old Testament stories, which describes the “a light silent sound” comes from 1 Kings (1 Kgs 19:11-13). Turns out, this is the bit that comes right before that. And it hit me just right.

Click that link above to read it yourself, and then let’s do the quick-and-dirty outline here:

• Elijah goes way out in the desert
• Elijah plops down under a tree and prays for death(!)
• Elijah falls asleep and is visited by an angel who touches him and gets him up
• There’s suddenly food and drink for him — a “hearth cake” and “jug of water”
• He falls back asleep, gets restarted by the angel, eats and drinks again
• Now he is up for a 40-day-and-40-night trek to the Mountain of God (LFG)

I feel you, Elijah. This looks lethal, but it also looks quiet and solitudinous… hmm…

Elijah is a vibe. He is a mood we can all identify with at times. Two populations came to mind on that steamy Sunday morning in a crowded church north of Dallas with my wife’s family:

• Parents nearing the end of summer — especially those who are stay-at-home parents or flexed their work significantly to be with their kids more while school is off (I am this)
• Teachers, admins, and school staff returning for a new academic year (I was this for several years)

I can safely say that many of this summer’s days and weeks would’ve sent me on a long walk into the desert to pray for death — metaphorically of course. There is no amount of preparation and actual activity that could fully satisfy and exhaust my dear children in summer. And while many memories and special days make it more than worth it, the dreaded and feared “What are we gonna do now?” sliced right through me every time.

I know I can also say that even the sunniest, most zealous educator of youth has gotta have a bit of the “Sunday scaries” on the cusp of a new school year. The thought of learning all new names, navigating new rules and admins and apps and policies, and all the interpersonal juggling ahead might send you out in the footsteps of Elijah as well.

But there is good news, as always, with God and Christ.

You may not be visited by a literal angel and you may not receive literal hearth cakes and water jugs, and if a Google Image search is any clue, the literal hearth cake may not be all that appetizing (looks grainy, dude, like, I need every drop of that jug of water to chew those). But with prayerfulness, personal attentiveness and awareness, and some degree of receptivity to those close to you who care for you (and maybe even new folks who will come along), God does point us toward those who can give us the angelic touch, who can feed us with the hearty daily bread, and who can nourish us with that needed drink.

As a teacher, I think of the first students I encountered at my first job who welcomed me so warmly and diluted away my nerves. I think of the chaplain at my second job who was such a compatible and constructive partner that I can’t imagine any other explanation for our meeting than the Holy Spirit. I think of my mentor-teachers at my third job who helped me hit the ground running and steeped me in pedagogy and accompaniment skills that rounded me out in ways I never would’ve found otherwise.

As a parent, I think of the kind librarians awaiting at story times this fall for my baby daughter. I think of the kind teachers who have gotten to know our family and welcome us back so warmly and personally. I think of the parent-friends who we’ve gotten to know and how we’ve learned from raising our kids side by side in our community.

I believe the way out of fear and anxiety (in the sub-clinical sense) is to have eyes and hearts open so that you can receive this love and let it help you. It’s Mr. Rogers’ exhortation to look for the helpers. It’s the humility to accept help during a flood from the radio announcement, the man in the rowboat, and the ladder dropped from the helicopter. It’s the vision to see Christ in the man risen from the tomb and the breaker of bread who broke open the Scriptures on the road to Emmaus, and how that same Christ comes before us in our brothers and sisters each day.

Parents, our kids will look and sound different to us when they come home from six-plus hours of school.

Educators, your students will look and sound different as they come to you for fresh help in their growth.

God is dropping hearth cakes like bread crumbs, leaving cold drinks like it’s an open bar, and moving in grace and the Holy Spirit with 24-7 angelic touch. Here’s to being able to identify it and welcome it.

I've Realized I Can Be a Real Masshole

by Dan Masterton

This article was originally published on August 6, 2024.

When I was in middle school, my friends and I played in a 3-on-3 basketball tournament once a year. We got to choose teammates, name our team, design a jersey (read: go to a store where they hot-pressed felt letters on to blank tees for us), and coach ourselves. Long live Insert Team Name Here! And the shirsey I made in 7th grade that I still wear today.

The biggest hurdle for us kids was the very early start on that Saturday — often like 6:30 or 7am (which, as I read it as a 35-year-old father of three, feels like a decent night’s sleep) — and getting up and ready and out the door to the high school where it was held was… tough. But we did it!

We loved playing, and there was a buzz and excitement in the air, even if the sun was still coming up. The teams clustering all over the hallways and gyms, the officials manning the scoreboards and refereeing the games, the zoo of parents and siblings and friends huddled around the courts — all of it was more than enough to wake you up and get your juices flowing. Each year we played, we had a lot of fun.

If you’re worried I may launch into a pained comparative metaphor about how the life of faith is like 3v3 basketball, rest assured: I will not. The relevance here is that this special occasion proved my capacity to rise early and get engaged quickly.

Thanks for reading A Restless Heart! If you like relentlessly consistent faith bloggers, you’ll love Tuesdays after you subscribe to this guy’s reflections. The most restless of restless hearts you’ll find this side of the Mississipp!

One Sunday, sometime in eighth grade, I was moving slow, not getting out of bed or moving toward being ready for 9am Mass with my family. My dad came into my bedroom to inject some urgency into my lethargy, which I did not welcome. In my tweenaged wisdom, I declared to him that going to Mass so early and so tired made me “an empty vessel.” Not sure how I reached for and located such biblical language, but my argument was that it was not worth going to Mass when I was so sleepy.

Oops.

My dad is not one to give speeches or pontificate; he was not one to read anyone the riot act or go all red-assed on us. In our family, he leads by example and by sparse, simple statements, sometimes with head tilted or eyebrows raised. He had an easy rebuttal for me this morning, “Well, I don’t think you were an empty vessel when you got up to play in the tournament.”

That shut me up! Off I went, begrudgingly, to get ready for Mass.

In our house growing up, there was never a question of whether or not we were going to Mass. Occasionally, there was a question about which Mass we’d attend. Sometimes, my dad and I played basketball with his friends on Sunday mornings and went to 11:30am Mass later; sometimes, we went to Saturday evening Mass to avoid a conflict with an early family party or the noon basketball or baseball game coming up; each fall, home games for the Bears often meant dad and one son hitting the 8am Mass before heading downtown; on rare occasions, we’d count a wedding Mass on a Saturday as good enough. But in our week-in-week-out lives, we were always going to go.

I liked going to Mass because it was familiar, consistent, insightful, renewing, and joyful, so I internalized this habit as a teenager. When my friends had sleepovers after high school dances, I’d get up in time to make the 11:30am at my parish the next day, or occasionally if we had the Monday off, I’d go to daily Mass on Monday as a sort-of catch-up piety for missing Sunday. When I was in college, I sang in a choir that was always ministering on Sundays and Holy Days, and I was glad to be part of it. When I set out as an independent adult, I’ve always registered at a parish and made a point of freely choosing to go every Sunday and Holy Day.

And I can’t say that I’ve ever been shaky or skeptical as I sustained this habit.

Then came marriage, and working with a partner to build habits as a couple and eventually as a family. Then came kids and the x-factors and wild cards of their little lives, their phases, and their dear microbiomes. And then came COVID, with its long-lasting dispensation from in-person Mass obligations, taking in Mass on TV and online, outdoor radio Masses with communion distribution, and, frankly, many Sundays were we didn’t observe the day in any meaningful way.

So after cruising through the first 25ish years of my life with the unflinching habit of weekly Mass, these last ten years have stacked up new, layered, challenging questions — ones that take the consistency of the piety at my heart and challenge it with the realities of the daily lives of not just one person but of a family and our wider world.

If my wife just worked her assigned Thursday, Friday, and Saturday overnight 12-hour nursings shifts at the hospital, and the only Masses she can go to will delay her long-desired sleep for a few more hours on top of the piled-up exhaustion, how hard should I push for us to still go to Mass on Sunday morning? What does it mean for us to go, or not to go?

If my 15-month-old is deep in the throes of a phase where she can’t sit still, can’t stay in one place, and can’t stop screaming and shrieking, and we’ll spend most of Mass in the vestibule or outside, whether in shifts or all together, how hard should I push for us to still go to Mass on Sunday morning? What does it mean for us to go, or not to go?

If our church has reopened Mass attendance to 100 socially-distanced congregants, and they’re committed to thorough cleanings, mask-wearing, and strict enforcement of hand sanitizing throughout the weekend, but the COVID transmission is super high and our kids remain unvaccinated, how hard should I push for us to still go to Mass on Sunday morning? What does it mean for us to go, or not to go?

If we just traveled by car and plane and car, took part in Friday night and all-day Saturday wedding events for a secular ceremony, only got ourselves and our kids to bed quite late on Saturday night, and there’s a mid-morning breakfast sendoff on Sunday, how hard should I push to get everyone up and going to Mass on Sunday morning? What does it mean for us to go, or not to go?

If we’re on vacation with our closest friends and our friends’ kids, and we just enjoyed a great “house Mass” all together on Friday afternoon with a friendly visiting priest, and kids from half the families are struggling through sick bugs and anti-nap fits as we prepare to head to the Saturday evening Mass, how hard should I push for us to still go to Mass? What does it mean for us to go, or not to go?

Let me start here: left to my own devices or in a situation where I’m choosing freely only for myself, I will always go. Unless I’m horribly ill or genuinely and irreconcilably conflicted against any and all Mass times, I will make my way there. Tired, weary, or worse, I will be there because I think it’s important, because it feeds me, and because sends me forth in the way I need to go.

But how do I bring that core rigidity into my relationships? How do I work out our habits with my wife? How do I model and practice and explain the habit to our children? How do I receive and respond to family members and their various habits? How do I receive and respond to friends and their various habits? Most importantly, to what extent do I soften the stance I believe is right when I find disagreement, especially with people whose faith and character I otherwise hold in highest regard?

I wanted to crowdsource this a little, and I quickly found that I am the willing victim of selection bias. Most of my friends, close ones and more loosely acquainted, are Catholic, and many of them spoke up in witness to their similar habits, albeit with a mix of motivations and caveats.

“I view our family obligation as unconditional. It grounds and sets the tone for our entire week.”

“Like you said, it’s never been a choice to me. Lately, I’ve started saying, ‘God asks for one hour a week, and you have 167 other hours to do other things.’”

“With 3 young kids, we go every week, even on vacation, unless someone is pretty sick. Then maybe that person or some of us miss. If we are traveling all day and it's near impossible to achieve, we may miss it, but we generally find churches while traveling.”

“I fell off for many years but recently started going every Sunday. Reading Gift from the Sea gave me a perspective that makes it seem so much more inviting. The author holds the sabbath as a gift, more than an obligation.”

'“I am very strict about going on Sunday. My rule is unless there's a fever or vomiting we are there! We live in a city with plenty of options so we have the luxury of choosing a different mass time.”

“We try to go every week and schedule other plans so that we can be able to go. But we definitely do not go if any of us is sick (personal pet peeve - I cannot stand when I see sick people in church!).”

“Go more often then I miss!”

“I go nearly every Sunday and do feel guilty if I miss a Sunday. Like others, I consider Sunday Mass recommendation for our spiritual health.”

“I am less consistent about the Sunday Mass because I feel less at home at the diocesan parish I used to attend. Our diocese released a tone deaf and insensitive document with ‘guidance’ on questions regarding sexual orientation and gender identity, and it doesn't sit right with my spirit to participate in the ways that I used to. On the other hand, I now attend mass just about every other day of the week thanks to my new job. I love the community I get to pray with and I deeply appreciate the priests who preside. Life is funny and strange, but it feels like God knows how to get me where I need to be.”

“We go weekly unless someone is sick. If it's one of the kids, we will try to alternate care to get to mass for those who fall under the obligation, but sometimes that doesn't work. Even when my husband is on call for the ER, he rarely misses (he's had to leave midway through once or twice) because we are lucky enough to live somewhere that he can get to a multitude of masses within his 20 minute call radius (and working at a Catholic hospital doesn't hurt! He's definitely made it there a handful of times as well!). We care because it's what God asks of us and what the church has given us as the minimum expectation.

The range of responsibilities, commitments, and priorities in adult life bring quite the context to the question of Mass obligation and attendance — from family to work to traveling for important events and more. I appreciate the witness and fidelity of people who continue to make it a very high priority, even when things are challenging; I also have an expanded appreciation and understanding for those who sometimes do not make it happen. (And there’s a whole ‘nother pastoral conversation to have some time about how to receive people who feel unwelcome, who are no longer interested, or who no longer want to engage in prayer and worship in the Church.)

I want to offer two instances from my life — you might have guessed that my italicized hypotheticals are all too real and concrete. Maybe this can help describe the ways I’ve felt torn as I hang on to this strict piety in my heart but try to live a present, compassionate life closely with the people I love.

Earlier this year, we went to a family wedding that was totally secular and included a full slate of Friday-Saturday-Sunday activities. We were committed to several events in several places, and we genuinely wanted to be fully present for all of the celebration.

On our Catholic side of the family, some of our family members would probably say they were “raised Catholic” while others still practice their Catholicism but don’t necessarily hold to the weekly Sunday obligation quite as strictly as I do. As the agenda for the weekend came into focus, a few key family members intentionally thought of me and my desire to get to Sunday Mass each week.

I had already let go of trying to get my whole family turned around from a late Saturday night to a Sunday morning Mass (which is different that what I might have been thinking earlier in our family life) but was thinking about scooting out to get to Mass myself. I decided to tell them that I’d just miss Mass for the weekend because it felt like everyone else, including the other side of the family that did not really go to church, would have to build the Sunday plans around me. I didn’t like feeling like the monkey wrench in the machinery, so I bowed out of my usual habit to make the bigger picture work more easily.

In retrospect, I regret that choice. I wish I had made a point of finding the best choice for an early bird Mass and gotten myself in gear to get over to church. Even if I was tired from a long day, it’s the perfect time for hitting the morning coffee and enjoying an express-lane early Mass. I think even when I accept that others are choosing not to go, that my example — hopefully quiet, understated, never lorded over people or held in their faces — might be a small way to vote with my feet and stick to my piety, to live out what I desire without fanfare or drama. I wouldn’t want to anger or offend others, but I do wish I had quietly done my thing.

Earlier this summer, some of our best friends and our families gathered for our annual vacation get-together. It’s a great long weekend of catching up, playing with the growing number of kids, and feeling totally relaxed and at home because of the excellent company. We usually sketch out a lite meal plan and a few ideas for outings or games, but we keep it very sparse and lean into everyone’s strong preference to simply be together.

On the Friday afternoon, our friends’ priest-friend visited the house to help cook an amazing dinner and to hang out with everyone — and he said a house Mass! It was a neat experience for our kids, especially, who are super familiar with Mass but had never participated in it at someone’s house! It was neat, novel, and calming. I loved it.

The next day, we had planned to make the drive from our friends’ country house into town for a Saturday night Mass — about a half hour or so. Given the four families and our combined eight kids ranging from six months to seven years old, it was going to be quite the carpooling, gear-packing, kid-juggling operation. As the afternoon wore on, it turned out one dad was staying back to prepare dinner; then another couple decided they didn’t want to interrupt their son’s nap; and another couple followed suit. Then our friend who doesn’t have kids of her own also opted to stay back at the last minute when she realized the social quorum would be there.

It left me, my kids, and my wife in a bind, as we watched our last remaining friend and her kiddos load up and head out to Mass. My wife made the snap decision to stick with the plan and head to Mass, thinking it’s what I’d have wanted — which I did — but we were flustered. We don’t depend too much on hard plans when hanging with this group, but this is what we had pencilled in and people bailed out of it sort of late. As we thought about it, on the long drive there and back, we were a little bummed to miss out on two-plus hours of social time together, especially after we had shared in a daily Mass at home the day before and only get a few days a year to all be together.

While I didn’t regret going to that Mass, I felt very preoccupied and conflicted while participating. I’m glad I was able to bring it in prayer and carry it to the altar in Eucharist, but it felt like such a conflict could’ve been avoided. If I could wave a wand, we wouldn’t have gone, but it wouldn’t have been because of an instant tough choice — it would’ve been because we all talked and decided as a group to stay home together, and perhaps because we chose to maybe read the readings aloud as a group or go for a prayer walk while we missed Sunday Mass. I regretted the conflict, the tension, and the split decision. And I know that my rigid piety, and my wife’s familiarity with it and deference to it, played a large part in that. And that’s what I want to avoid.

So how hard should I push? And what does it mean to go, or not to go?

My reflection starts with myself. I want to maintain a pretty absolute piety. Sundays and Holy Days? I always want to be there. Missing Mass feels like declining to take a prescribed medicine that will ease my symptoms or treat an illness; it feels like choosing not to eat because even though you’re hungry you can’t get yourself going enough to shop for groceries or cook or even go pickup food that you know will feed that need; it feels like opting not to exercise even when your body feels limber and the weather is great and you have the free time. I want the Scriptures; I want the Eucharist; I want the time and space; I want the context of communal prayer; I want the palpable Spirit and grace of Mass.

My reflection moves to my wife and kids. I want them there with me for them to get their own fill of these same things. I want my kids to see sacramentals in community and Word and Eucharist and inch their way toward exploring the Mystery (and they don’t really have a choice anyway — ha!). I want my wife to sing the songs I’m singing, hear the readings I’m hearing, receiving the Eucharist I’m receiving, and bring these things home with me into our shared life we’re living. The thing I’ve learned is that marital decisions that aren’t made communicatively, collaboratively, and earnestly are wobbly and ineffective. And sometimes, there are weekends where it is trickier for us to all get to Mass and go together. I don’t have a prescriptive approach to handling this. But where I might have previously been inflexible and unreceptive, I now am prepared and interested in a conversation — and similarly uninterested in dictation or uncollaborative rigidity.

My reflection moves to my friends and family. “Now who is going to harm you if you are enthusiastic for what is good? But even if you should suffer because of righteousness, blessed are you. Do not be afraid or terrified with fear of them, but sanctify Christ as Lord in your hearts. Always be ready to give an explanation to anyone who asks you for a reason for your hope, but do it with gentleness and reverence.” (1 Peter 3:13-16)

The same ideals apply from my own heart and my family life, but the interaction, influence, and collaboration with others won’t be the same. We’re more in parallel than truly overlapped in deciding things. So for them, I take more of this tack: I love Mass, and I will always go to Mass. Do you like Mass? If not, why? What confuses you? What puts you off? What do you need to understand better? I want to share, by example and by conversation, how Mass is part of the reason for my hope.

I love breaking down the Mass, not just the ways I like and enjoy it but also the ways it is packed full of symbolism, meaning, and communal ritual. Yet as much as that catechesis or trivia might be a good little dialogue, it might be a superficial exercise, just a chat. I think the most important question we can ask — of our partners, of our children, of our family members, of our friends, of our acquaintances, of others curious about Catholicism — is simply, “Will you come with me?”

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.