The first rule of the Catholic Parent Club is DO NOT SIT AT THE FRONT. Brendan seemed to have forgotten this as he confidently strode up towards the altar with our hyperactive toddler in his arms, and I slunk behind carrying the baby, as everyone watched us. We weren’t particularly late for Mass: five minutes or so, pretty good going by our standards. “Brendan, what are you thinking!” I hissed as he settled into a pew right under the priest’s nose. “What?” he said. “This is Ireland: it’s always empty at the front.”
Within minutes the toddler made a break for it, heading at speed for a stand laden with lit candles. The congregation, up for a bit of amusement, watched to see whether Brendan would catch up with her before she knocked the whole thing over. He made it, just, and then had to haul our toddler, kicking and screaming the whole way up the aisle, back out into the car park, leaving me alone at the front for the rest of Mass, all eyes boring into me as I tried to placate a loud and wriggly baby for an hour.
We’re in the Diocese of Cloyne, visiting Brendan’s family and, as I’m finding out, going to church in Ireland is a very different experience from going to church at home. For one thing, all that seems to matter is how fast a priest can say Mass. “That’s Fr Winkle now,” Brendan’s mother explains to me. “He takes his time. He’ll say a proper homily. He’s got ideas, you know. He’ll go to the back of church after Mass to greet people. ‘That fella’s been to England,’ they say.”
Legend has it that one local priest clocked in at under half an hour. When a parishioner mentioned it, he raised an eyebrow and said: “And did I miss anything out, so?”
If it isn’t a priest speeding through the liturgy, it’s the congregation speeding through the responses. I’ve given up trying to participate in the liturgy because it’s just a cacophony, with half the people around me on “Amen” by the time I’ve started with the “Our Father”.
As for Communion, it’s an every-man-for-himself, bundle-into-the-aisle-all-at-once kind of affair. My English sense of order is rocked and disturbed by this. I like a neatly ordered queue, me.
Fr Winkle finished Mass with the beautiful Litany of Our Lady of Knock. I like a good litany more than I like a neatly ordered Communion queue, so on balance it all evens out. Next week, I’ll make sure to get to Mass especially early so we can be sure of a place to stand at the back.
We took the ferry to Ireland for the first time, having flown for previous visits. With two small children, we needed the car. I was nervous about the crossing and set myself a mission to complete before the journey: find two small St Christopher medals – one for each of the children – and get them blessed. A week before we sailed, we happened to be holidaying near the National Shrine at Walsingham, so
I picked up the medals in the gift shop there and waylaid a passing priest.
The night we set off for the Welsh coast, I got the kids ready for bed as usual and pulled out the gift-shop bag with the medals in. The toddler accepted her medal, patting the necklace with great interest, but the baby seemed a bit too interested, so I slipped it into the foot of her sleepsuit where it couldn’t do any harm. Then I bundled them into their car seats and off we went. My hope is that the St Christopher medals will come out for every long journey, until one day – maybe setting off on a gap year – they choose to continue this faith tradition for themselves, God willing.
Another tradition we keep to, as a family, is a night blessing. I was recently given some holy water from Lourdes and I’ve been using it to bless the children at bedtime. I didn’t realise what an impression this had made on our toddler until we were on Ballyquin beach exploring some rockpools. She dipped her finger in a rockpool, paused for a moment, then dabbed it on her forehead. She then turned to me and dabbed it on my forehead, too. I felt very humbled to be blessed by my own daughter in such an innocent way.
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