Four-and-a-half-year-old Jamie (“St. James the ‘possle, but I’m a girl“) Florin watched as her one-year-old brother, Brian (“St. Andrew”) ate a $1,000 check out of the collection basket on Sunday.
“I thought he was puttin’ something in,” said Jamie, shrugging. “Except using his face.”
“Jamie, did you really?” asked her mother, Mae (“St. Matrona help me now”) Florin. “Honestly?”
Jamie shrugged again. “I dunno,” she said. “Can I go play now?”
Meanwhile, six-year-old Herb (“I dunno, me?”) Gartner was dropping bits of beeswax down the back of his cousin’s shirt.
“Stop it,” whined seven-year-old Rosemary (“It’s the Mary part, the one from Egypt”) Gartner. “He-erb, that itches.”
“Jamie did it,” said Herb promptly.
“Did not!” yelled Jamie, bashing him with the Kleenex box.
“Jamie Joy Florin, you come here now. Did I just see that? In the fellowship hall? Half an hour after Liturgy?”
Jamie pouted. “But Mama, Herb was telling lies.”
“Yes, I’ll get to him. But would you hit in front of the bishop?”
“Herb did, last year.”
Mae gave her a Look. “Would you hit the bishop?”
Jamie sighed. “Noooo…”
“Then should you be hitting now?”
Jamie rolled her eyes. “I guess not. Does this mean I have a Confession again?”
“You have to go to Confession, yes. Now Jamie, go sit with your daddy, okay?”
“Is this a conse–consa–the thingy?”
“Consequence, yes. You weren’t behaving well so now you have to sit with a grown up.”
“I wanna sit with Grammy.”
“I want a hot bath and a cocktail. However, right now, you’re going to go sit with your father and I’m going to talk to Herb.”
Jamie sighed. “O-kay, Mama.”
“Herb!” called Mae. “Come here please.”
Herb made a squinty face.
“Now, please.” As Herb took tiny steps towards her, Mae sighed and turned to your Terce Reporter. “There’s a single mother coming to church lately,” she said, “and she just became a catechumen. She asked me if I had any ideas for patron saints. I told her to pick a martyr, one who was tortured for a very long time, so she’d never feel alone.”
Mae surveyed the scene. “Herb, put that down, and come here. Rosey, Jamie, don’t feed that to the dog or he’ll…I’m not cleaning that.”
Father Bartholomew walked up to her. “Aren’t they just blessings?” he asked with a wink.
“I’m earning my crown,” Mae told him, and Fr. Bartholomew simply nodded.
This report filed by Terce Reporter Brigid Strait.
Copyright © 2012 Brigid Strait. All Rights Reserved.