From Cheerios to Car Keys

Kevin Tondra reflects on the years spent bringing his daughters to Sunday Mass, realizing every age has its own purpose.

Some Sundays, I still look for the Cheerios.

They used to be everywhere: scattered on the seat and floor of the pew, jammed into the hymnal racks, and ground into the fabric of the kneelers. Weeks later, I’d still find a stray one buried in a jacket pocket.

People always told us that taking the kids to Mass would get easier as they grew older. Looking back, I’m not sure that’s quite right. It didn’t get easier; we just traded one kind of chaos for another. Every age brought a new version of the struggle, but there was always a quiet kind of grace hidden in it, too.

Cheerios and Crying

When our girls were little, getting to Mass felt like loading a U-Haul for a cross-country move. Our pews were packed with diaper bags, snack cups, crayons, stuffed animals, and an assortment of chunky plastic Bible books meant to provide "holy" distraction. Between quiet bribes of extra snacks, giving an unused tithing envelope to color on, and making at least one hurried escape to the back of the church with a restless child, we missed more homilies than I care to admit.

Some Sundays, I honestly don’t remember the Mass at all. I just remember trying to keep everyone settled and hoping we weren’t ruining the morning for the people around us. What stays with me now, though, isn’t the frustration of others. It’s the kindness — the smiles from older couples, and the parents with grown children who gave us that knowing look that said, we’ve been there.

At that stage, success was simple: make it through Mass until the priest and altar servers processed down the aisle after the final blessing.

Questions and Wonder

Eventually, the noise changed. The questions started.

“Why do we stand again?” “Why is Father wearing green?” “Do angels really come to Mass?”

Some were easy. Others caught me completely off guard. A few always seemed to come at the worst possible time, whispered just loudly enough to carry across three rows during the quietest moments of the liturgy.

But kids notice things. The sights and rituals I had stopped paying attention to years ago suddenly became interesting again because they mattered to them. Explaining the Mass in simple words forced me to slow down and pay attention, too. More than once, I realized I was learning right alongside them.

Middle-School Stillness

Middle school brought a different challenge altogether. By then, they knew the choreography of the Mass: when to sit, stand, and kneel. The responses came automatically, like muscle memory.

But engagement was another story. There was fidgeting. Slouching. A sudden, intense fascination with the wood grain of the pew or the exact number of lights on the ceiling. As their hands hovered over pockets where phones were hidden, their faces wore that classic expression: I would rather be anywhere else on earth.

That stage can feel uneasy for a parent. Nothing is explicitly wrong, but nothing feels especially alive either. You start to wonder if any of it is sticking, or if you’re just dragging them there on a hope and a prayer.

Yet, over time, a quiet shift happens. Even when they looked bored, a routine was forming. Sunday wasn’t an argument or a debate; it was simply what our family did. And maybe that’s where real formation starts more often than we think — not in a burst of enthusiasm, but in the steady, unremarkable discipline of showing up.

Teenagers and the Harder Questions

High school changed the tone again. The questions were no longer about what happens at Mass, but why it matters at all.

They were tired — busy with school, sports, band, and, most of all, growing up. Sometimes they didn’t want to go. This wasn’t about compliance anymore; it was about ownership. Faith was no longer something they lived in just because we built it. They were starting to look at it from the outside, deciding if they wanted it for themselves.

Less control can be unsettling, but it also opens the door for deeper conversations.

Some of the best talks we had with our daughters didn't happen in the pew. They happened afterward in the car or at a local bakery, when the pressure was off and the Sunday-clothes feeling of the morning had faded. Questions about God, doubt, and purpose would surface slowly, often sparked by nothing more than the hum of the tires on the road or a good bagel. Faith doesn't only grow during instruction. It grows in the everyday space that comes after.

Car Keys and Letting Go

And then, the car keys appear.

Suddenly, they are driving themselves, managing their own schedules, and making decisions outside of your control. You realize Sunday mornings are no longer something you plan, but something they choose.

That transition is quieter than the others, but it’s the one that stays with you the most.

You look at the empty space next to you and wonder what stayed and what didn’t: what took root during those years of spilled snacks and slouching. But over time, I've come to believe something simple: our children were never really ours to hold onto in the first place.

We bring our children to Mass for years, but eventually, the bringing has to become a letting go. The way they show up changes, but the love stays put.

One Pew, Many Seasons

Not long ago, I noticed a young couple a few pews ahead of me with two small children. One was crying softly. The other was spilling Cheerios from a plastic cup. Looking exhausted and more than a little apologetic, the parents were doing their best to stay focused while managing both at once.

I recognized the scene immediately. When our eyes eventually met, I didn’t look away or frown. I just gave them that same quiet, knowing smile I had relied on years ago.

Every stage feels like it will last forever when you’re in the middle of it. But it doesn’t. The crying becomes questions. The questions become silence. The silence becomes independence.

And somewhere along the way, parents discover that God has been forming them, too.

Through it all, the Mass remains steady and familiar. It's a place where God meets families exactly as they are — in whatever season they happen to be navigating.

From Cheerios to car keys, He is there.

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Copyright 2026 Kevin Tondra
Images: (top, center) created by the author using Gemini, Google LLC, June 2026; (bottom) Canva