While raising young kids, I relied a great deal on prayer, and there were times when daily mass provided great peace and solace. I remember thinking that if I just went to mass, then maybe my kids would survive the pressures of adolescence. I also prayed that teenage perspectives would become clearer to me. If I said black, somebody would say white. Sometimes they said nothing. That was the worst.  

I regularly attended Catholic daily mass at Saint Paul’s because different weekdays were designated as mass days for different grades. I remember daydreaming about a life of pure service to the church free from forgotten permission slips and incomplete band practice logs. This alternative vocational calling peaked with Kevin’s toddler obsession with turning on and off every light switch as he was carried through the house. The simple navigation from the garage to the family room required immense patience.

I figured if I lived in a convent, I’d surely have less to sweat about unless those darn nuns got on my nerves. I thank God for deep breaths, funny friends, and my loving Mom who made me feel like I was not alone. I am also eternally grateful for my husband Tim, a constant supporter with a knack for remaining on the outskirts of every family crisis. I loved the familiar rhythm of mass and the scriptures, and I always returned home fortified with strength, perspective, and faith.

I still do.