We have been to three first communions over the past three weekends.
One Sunday we turned up at mass only to find that it was first communion Sunday. Traditionally, these ceremonies have taken place on a Saturday but a shortage of priests means that they are moving to Sundays. Other regulars were absent but, having missed choir rehearsal during the week, we hadn’t heard. A very long mass involving hoards of relatives filming in the aisle and a particularly lengthy sermon from the parish priest who is no slouch in this department even under normal circumstances.
The priest said to the first communicants that in a way they were now grown-up. Michael snorted in derision, “Maybe if there was a 1 in front of the 8. Then they’d be in college and grown-ups. [Pause] College is school for grown-ups. [Further pause] Work is school for proper grown-ups”
Then the following Saturday, Daniel was singing in the choir for the school first communion. He and I daringly, and relatively successfully cycled into town for the mass.
Last Saturday, the children’s cousin had his first communion. We were almost late but made it. The ceremony was lovely and there was an impressive array of food on offer in the children’s school afterwards. I had to pace myself, however, as the communicant’s parents, rather bravely, in my view, had the extended family (17 people) around for lunch afterwards. All very successful, including a number of live renditions of the hit songs from Frozen.
This weekend, there are no first communions. We don’t know what to do with ourselves.