Apr 18, 2011
I grew up a military brat. My dad was a US Navy SEAL for 11 years before he transitioned from the SEAL Team to the CIA in Langley, Virginia. As most military brats, we moved a lot. My first house was in Virginia Beach, right off of Chicks Beach, and then we lived in Indianhead, Maryland for a while – this was all before I turned 3. At another house in Virginia Beach, I turned four and shortly after that, my mom and day brought my sister, Addie, into the world. I was so excited to have a new baby sister, and still am. Our next move was from Virginia to North Carolina, a small little town seemingly in the middle of nowhere. We lived in a little ranch-style house that sat at the end of Wingfield Street, an elderly lady our neighbor to the left, and a vast several acres of cornfield to our right. Our front porch faced the corn field and almost every day our family would enjoy watching the sunset over the corn stalks, feeling almost as if we lived on a farm. It was when we lived at this house in North Carolina that I remember my first Easter Sunday.
Growing up, my Mom instilled the Catholic traditions in both my sister and I early on. Church every Sunday, without fail and we had to be quiet and actually listen to the priest when he gave his homily, something that isn’t always easy for young children. On this particular Easter Sunday, my sister was more restless than we had ever seen her in church. She was just under two years old, and she gave a whole new meaning to “the terrible twos!” As Mass begun, I think we all knew it was going to feel like 4-hour-long Mass, with her squirmy and fussy from the beginning of the entrance hymn. As Mass unfolded, my Mom expertly kept my sister at bay, switching her from hip to hip and entertaining her with various chewy toys and turning the pages of the hymnals. However, come homily time, my sister wasn’t having any more of the being kept at bay – she was two and she was determined to be terrible! It was one of those mornings at church where you wanted all eyes on you because of your adorable new Easter outfits, not because of your fussy sister wreaking havoc! I’ll never forget, as Father Gaul started his homily, he moved from behind the podium, never skipping a beat, articulating the captivating recount of Easter morning, Christ Is Risen (and remember, this was well before we had such things like wireless mics, etc.) and walked right up to my mother and I asked if he could hold my sister, and situated her on his right hip, and continued to talk about the glory of the tomb being found empty.
Surprisingly to me, my sister, for the first time in church that Easter Sunday, my sister became totally calm. At times she even giggled as he walked around, smiling and talking about what it must have felt like for Mary, the soldiers…finding the tomb empty. Even as a terrible two, I think the power of that story had an effect on my little squirmy sister. Father finished his homily, and blessed my sister with a sign of the cross on her forehead, returned her to my mom, and she sat through the rest of Mass without uttering a peep.
My mom and I will never forget that morning, how cool we thought Father Gaul was for stepping outside of the norm and holding my sister as he preached. I’ll never forget the visual of my sister, seemingly uncontrollable before that moment, becoming so calm and peaceful in the hands of Father. That visual is one that I carry with me today. Often times, I’m fussy, unruly and figuratively, can’t seem to sit still – I always have to be going, always doing and often times can’t just sit and enjoy the peace of the Father. There are times where He decides to pick me up, sit me on His hip, and mesmerize me by what He’s communicating. Instead of fidgeting and squirming through life, trying to find what satisfies us, let us not be taken by surprise by our Father’s ability to pick us up and settle us down, but let us be that child, with hands outreaching saying, “Father, will You hold me?”
Kat Davis, Author
The Daily Verse: Volume 1
www.thedailyverse.com
