One Sunday during our recent holiday in New Brunswick, Clark and I found ourselves in church with Nana—right at the back pews. It was easier for Jean. The priest is to come to the back during communion to serve those with mobility issues. So, Clark and I joined her.
When communion time came, Clark and I left Jean in the pew while we made our way up the aisle. I gave Clark a quick tutorial on how to cross his arms for a blessing instead of communion. Arms folded and follow the crowd.
Easy enough, right?
But Clark, ever the observant young man, noticed something crucial. Everyone else was going up with their hands cupped… and lo and behold, they were being rewarded with a tiny snack. Slowly, ever so slowly, his arms began sliding down from the “blessing pose,” and by the time we reached Father, Clark’s hands were perfectly cupped, ready to claim his prize.
I lunged forward like a desperate bridesmaid diving for a tossed bouquet and shoved Clark’s arms back across his chest.
Father, already holding the host delicately between thumb and forefinger, raised his hand to give Clark a blessing— and that’s when Clark made his move.
Head flung back. Mouth open wide. Tongue-lolling and snapping like Scooby-Doo trying to gobble up the host like it was a flying Scooby Snack.
Father’s reflexes deserve sainthood because he narrowly avoided losing a finger to Clark’s enthusiastic chomp.
In the end, I was the one who received the coveted host, while Clark sat back down with his arms folded and a scowl that clearly said, “This is an outrage. Everyone else gets snacks, and I get air.”
He must have swallowed air in the process; hiccups started shortly after…
Honestly, I was relieved he didn’t get one. I had visions of Clark suddenly realizing it wasn’t exactly Gold Fish quality and then sputtering it into his hand halfway down the aisle.
After Mass, we filed out, shaking hands with Father, who stood smiling by the door. He asked if “the young man” had made his First Communion. I explained that yes, Clark had technically received all the sacraments—baptism, communion, confirmation, even last rites—because with his earlier health issues (open-heart surgery, leukemia, the works)… doctors weren’t sure he’d survive, so the priest gave him every holy boost he could.
I added that Clark doesn’t understand the symbolism of bread and wine—he just thinks everyone’s getting a little snack, and he’s missing out.
Father smiled and said, “You know, God doesn’t care. If he wants to eat it, let him.”
So, NOW he tells me?
Oh, and Clark is still miffed.
P.S. Know someone who could use a laugh today? Forward this to them—Clark would want his “sacred Scooby Snack” story shared…
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