Mass, Ice Cream, and the Retour

Setting the House in Order

I owe it to my children to be the best father possible.  A priest once gave me this advice:  Whatever you do for your children, do it with love.  And that if I do that then I won’t go too far wrong.  I wanted to bring them to Lourdes and show them my faith. 

My son always says that, each time we go to Lourdes, something changes.  The last time was the nun, this time it was the desire to do sport and get even more back on track.  For Kate it was being exposed to something different.  It might have been God’s creation in the mountains, or just seeing that I’m not the guy who goes to mass, and who prays…

Maybe we’ll never know.  But the faith isn’t something that you impose.  It is something that can be introduced in gentleness and humility.  Seeing Dad go to confession and then to mass might just have left its mark upon her.  Maybe that is what I gave them at the grotto.

It was Sunday. That meant returning to the Sanctuaire for Mass—a last thank you to Our Lady in the Grotto, lunch, and then, for dessert, Burger King ice cream with the mountains laid out before us.

Before leaving, the house had to be set back in order—towels and bedding piled for washing, bags zipped, keys returned. Killian was up bright—almost—and early, already in gear. I was coaxing my diesel brain awake. Kate was still asleep. Pretty normal, if you ask me. She’s not a morning person. With her it’s always the softly-softly approach.

We gathered outside at last, the three of us dressed appropriately for Mass. Kate looked radiant in her dress—gone are the days of childhood. She is a young woman now. We only made sure her shoulders were covered before we left.

The Way She Knew

“Papaaaaaa”—tone number three: I want something.
“Can I take the jumper from the back of the car?”
“Yes,” I said. “Take the jumper—but don’t forget, it’s mine.”

Every trip to Lourdes leaves me grateful I came—and wishing I could stay. It’s strange how quickly a place becomes home. The children were already debating who would control the car radio. It wouldn’t be me.

We parked where we usually do and headed down to the sanctuary. Chocolatines in hand—this is the South-West, after all—I tried explaining to them why it wasn’t a “pain au chocolat.” I doubt I convinced anyone.

I knew the name of the chapel where Mass would be said, but not the way. Kate did. She deserves more credit than she gets.

Beside Me

Mass was in English. After thirty years in France, it felt strange yet familiar. “And with your spirit” still jars in English, though I say it every week in French and in Latin.

But what mattered most wasn’t the words. It was having them beside me. That turned Mass into something more. Into a legacy. Into my spiritual gift to them — something I hope will outlast even me.

Grainy. Imperfect. Like Love.

 We ate Indian food for lunch. Had ice cream at Burger King, overlooking the same mountains that had watched us that weekend. A good way to begin the long drive back to reality…

I didn’t take many photos that day—Kate and Killian together in the sanctuary, sunlight cutting across their shoulders. Kentmere, 100 ASA, f/8. Slightly grainy. Imperfect. Like faith. Like fatherhood. Like love.

Maybe that’s all I ever gave them.

And maybe it’s enough.