If it were up to me, I would have written the day differently. I would have left out the part about the allergy attack that made the new communicant miserable all day long. I would have written in a mother who remembers to have the First Communion candidate try on the dress shirt he hasn't worn in months to make sure it still fits. I would have scheduled the whole thing at a time when older siblings could be there. I would have sketched a pew full of extended family, grandparents and godparents.
As it was, the communicant was groggy with antihistamine to try to stem the sneezing. The dress shirt was replaced by a polo. Big sister and brother were away at college. The pew was empty save for parents, and since Dad is the organist, much of the time it was just Mom.
Yet on reflection, I think it was better this way. Driving to church last night I was able to talk to Evan about how Holy Communion, like Baptism, is not dependent on how he feels or on anything he or anyone else does. It doesn't matter if he is sunburned from the Easter egg hunt, has been driven to distraction by constant sneezing and itchy, watery eyes, and is sleepy from Benadryl. It doesn't matter what he is wearing or that he has only his mom and dad to celebrate with. What matters is that last night Jesus came to him in the bread of life and the cup of salvation and that for the rest of his life he will be able to sup at the table of the Lord in confidence and hope, knowing that no matter how he "feels" his sins are forgiven and all his debts paid.
It was a beautiful Easter Vigil last night and a glorious Feast of the Resurrection today, and at both services my youngest was next to me, partaking of the Blessed Sacrament. It is a table fellowship that, now begun, has no end. What could possibly be wanting? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.