Our daughter was slated to receive her First Holy Communion during the Traditional Latin Mass for the first Sunday after Easter, often called the Octave Day of Easter or Low Sunday. But with the disordered state of affairs in our country, and more tragically in our Church, our priest–may the Holy Angels protect him–moved it up. He didn’t want to risk something worse happening, and neither did we.
So yesterday morning, in the dark, we drove to our parish and prayed the Mass. It was a Low Mass with my husband serving. Only our immediate family was allowed in the body of the church. No grandmas and grandpas. No aunts, uncles, and cousins. No friends. (We are a family of 9. 10 people being the maximum number allowed anywhere these days.)
In fact, we didn’t even get to receive communion during the Mass. It had to be afterwards. Nor did we get to take photos with father either. He was incredibly busy administering the Sacraments to other people, including hearing Confessions that apparently didn’t end until 4 hours later. (The line was literally out the door–social distancing and all that.) God bless his soul.
But we didn’t mind any of these things. We were just thankful. Thankful that Paul was home, and thankful that our Lord Himself came to dwell within our daughter’s soul for the very first time.