“Tell Grandma we all went to midnight mass last night.”
—MOM, EVERY CHRISTMAS MORNING
We didn’t usually go to midnight mass. Sometimes Mom just wanted us to lie so we didn’t look like heathens in the eyes of my extra-Catholic grandparents. I’d say we averaged about once every three years. The last time we all made it, it was after a Christmas Eve party where everyone stayed late. The final guest left around 11:59, and Mom corralled us into a car to get there, even though we were all either exhausted, tipsy, or both. When we arrived a few minutes late, the place was packed, and all five Pellegrinos had to find a seat at the back of the church—in a location where you can’t see the priest and you can barely hear what he’s saying over a half-working loudspeaker. Every other word of the service would cut out, so mass sounded something like, “Hail Mary…full of…fruit…amen.”
We took our seats and, one by one, closed our eyes. None of us got a chance to taste communion that year, but we did all get some much-needed sleep and finally got to see the priest up close when he woke us up after the service.
“Wake up!” he shouted.
Santa Claus may see you while you’re sleeping and know when you’re awake, but so does Father John. Personally, I believe Jesus wants you to practice self-care and get plenty of rest, so get that shut-eye, whenever and wherever you can. Amen.