Will you still need me, will you still feed me?

Last night I made my son two reckless promises: That he would not die until he is a hundred years old, and that when he did, I'd still be with him.

We were listening to a Classical Kids CD called Mr. Bach Comes to Call, in which the ghost of Johann S. appears to a little girl who is begrudgingly practicing the piano. She is soon won over by the jolly old man and his tales of a busy, happy, music-filled life. At the end of the disc Bach mentions a composition that he was unable to finish, because "everyone has to die sometime."

We've played this CD probably a hundred times, but last night Opie stopped to think about that line. His face grew fearful. His voice quivered as he asked if that meant he would die. "Yes," I told him, but not for a very very very long time, when he was a very very very old man. "How old?" he pressed, and that's when I told him a hundred years (the biggest number I thought he could grasp--as it turns out, he didn't, and I had to count almost all the way from 3 to 100 to show just how far that was).

Still he wasn't satisfied, and his voice continued to teeter on the brink of tears. "But when I die, you won't be there."

"I will," I said, tears sliding down my own cheeks. "I will always be with you." Because I will, I thought. In Heaven, in memory, in some little sliver of DNA, one way or another. Unwilling and unable to explain all that, I defaulted to the simple lie. And then I perpetuated it by promising that Daddy would be there too, and Jo, and even our dog.

I know I'll break a lot of the promises I make my children, intentionally and not. I just wasn't quite prepared to discuss one of the universe's greatest unknowns right there in the dark, at 9 p.m. after a full day of solo parenting. (And you better believe I was the one who stayed awake staring at the ceiling when it was my turn to go to bed.)

The first day of the week

Last night was my friend's baptism and confirmation. I really don't think I have ever been prouder of someone who isn't a member of my immediate family. Her bravery and faith were breathtaking. She never wants to be the center of attention, but elected to do a full immersion baptism (betcha didn't know we Catholics even did that... I didn't!). It's unusual enough that when Father invited her, me, her family and friends to proceed to the baptismal font, he also invited the entire congregation to gather around as well. (Then he joked that he'd try not to fall in with her.)

She wore a bathing suit covered by a short robe, which she kept on as she knelt in the font. Her family was there, including her two little boys, her in-laws, and her sister; as her sponsor, I stood by her side. The rest of the RCIA candidates and catechists watched, along with a few hundred other parishioners, a deacon, several altar servers. Can you imagine the strength it took, to decide to do this, to want to do this? It was a privilege to observe it, and even more so to have my own small role to play in it.

After it was over she beamed with the joy of it, and the relief; her four-year-old piped, "Mommy, I am so proud of you!" and we all smiled because we were too. The rest of the Mass passed by in a rush and afterward, it seemed that everyone who'd been in the pews stopped to congratulate her and to welcome her. It's an Easter I won't easily forget.

In front of God and everyone

I don't normally post about religion, because holy lightning rod; and also, my feelings are nothing if not conflicted. I enjoy the ritual of it all and have found comfort there in times of grief. But if I am honest with myself, I haven't nearly the faith to swallow everything I should to be a true believer. And as a leftie, feminist type, I have Issues with a capital I about many teachings and dictates of the Roman Catholic church.

And yet, you'll find me at Mass nearly every Sunday, goosebumping up when the priest presents a newly baptized baby to the applauding congregation, beaming as if he bore that child himself. You'll notice tears leaking from the corner of my eyes during a soaring hymn. You'll see me volunteering to send valentines to homebound parishioners and organize the Sunday morning nursery co-op. You'll realize I'm sitting alongside almost all of my close friends in this community, the ones who'll watch one child while I chase the other or save a seat for us during coffee hour. On warm-weather days, the kids and I may be at church for two hours or more, including Mass, coffee talk, and a visit to the school's playground.

This year I am sponsoring a good friend as she goes through the RCIA process. I was honored to be asked, but hesitant. Was it really right for me to hold myself up as an example for her? In the end I decided that all I could do was tell her the truth. That I have questions, questions that will probably never be answered; but if she wanted to, we could seek together. And so we have. This Easter she will be baptized and I know I'll be proud to have been a part of this process with her.

I'm still out there wondering, but I know I have company. And that means a lot.

Happy Easter from the Apocalypse Cafe

With no family in Mayberry we were left to fend for ourselves this weekend. Yesterday a guy in a bunny suit scared the crap out of Opie at an otherwise delightful egg hunt/brunch. This morning I took Jo to church. It always makes me uneasy when I don't get hit with any droplets of holy water during the Asperges. It feels like a bad omen for the rest of the year. At the Brooklyn church where I attended Easter services for several years, the priest always approached this rite with glee, traveling the aisles with a sopping branch and a lieutenant holding an extra-large bowl of holy water for refills. He made it his personal mission to soak every single congregant.

So on our way out of church we made sure to stop at the baptismal font for a quick application of water, just for safety's sake.

This afternoon, with the temperatures barely rising above freezing, outdoor play was out; we went to a matinee. Happy Feet was playing at our local second-run theater. Tap-dancing penguins + minimal crowds + cheap tickets = best odds for Opie's first movie.

So this theater is in a mall that was reborn several years ago as a "youth mall." (Agreed, it sounds like an oxymoron.) It was meant to be a destination for teens, with various retailers, eateries, organizations, and even a charter school. It struggled along for a few years, suffering, no doubt, from the presence of a shiny new mall not far away; and then recently the building was sold. Now the movie theater is the only surviving business in the place.

Walking through the defunct mall to the theater was the creepiest. We're talking exposed wires, crumbling cement, cheap drywall partitions, broken glass and boarded windows, and to top it off, a planter containing three huge dead trees. It was straight out of a post-apocalyptic sci-fi movie. A really bad one.

So you can see why it's a good thing I'd loaded up on the holy water.