We went camping this weekend (more to come on that later), and didn’t want to rush to get to Sunday morning Mass. One of the local churches has a “last chance Mass” on Sunday evenings, aka the “drunkard’s Mass,” the “sinner’s Mass,” or the “camper’s Mass,” since my boys will see half the kids from their Troop there on camping weekends.
Bill and I had discussed Mass attendance options over breakfast that morning and decided to go to that one. We did not include the children in our conversation. Throughout the day, my older kids said, one by one, “Hey, it’s Sunday! What about Mass?” Like we would ever blow it off.
But it’s nice to know they think about it.
I don’t prefer to go Sunday nights, and I have a nagging feeling all day long whenever I do. This same church also has a “first chance Mass” on Saturday “evenings” – at 4:30 pm (most other area churches have Masses at 5 pm or later). I have been to that one several times, and it has a very different mood than this Sunday evening Mass. Saturday evening seems much more somber. But the Sunday evening Mass had, I swear it, a party tone. I finally resolved to stare at my lap so I would stop noticing all the chattering, hugging and complete disregard for the True Presence.
Just then, Katie, sitting to my right, nudged me and I was compelled to look down to my husband who was smirking.
“Peter’s shirt is on inside out,” he told me.
“I told him that!” said Katie-with-the-halo.
Peter was wearing a collared, button-down shirt. “How is that possible?” I asked.
“The tag is shoved up under the collar,” explained my husband. “And he’s not wearing socks.”
I started laughing, trying hard to stifle it. At least he was clean.