Midnight Mass Rebellion

Kathryn Pasker Ineck finds that making small changes to a family tradition can make space for the Infant Jesus.

It was blessedly quiet on the evening of Christmas Eve.

That feels like an odd way to describe a home filled with young, energetic kids awaiting the miracle of Christmas and the magic of Santa Claus.

Why the quiet? Why the calm? After all, we hadn’t even attended Christmas Eve Mass, yet!

At 10 and 11, Digit and Duke were eager altar servers, and they had signed themselves up to help at our parish’s Midnight Mass “because that’s the one most servers don’t sign up for, Mom!”

Deep sigh.

Conveniently, Jim had been assigned to serve on the altar as an acolyte alongside my Deacon Dad, but I had serious reservations about the idea of the two boys staying alert enough—not to mention upright—through the duration of the late Mass. I had even more serious reservations about the younger two staying awake (Daisy) and quiet (Rooster) in the pew with me.

We had eaten Christmas Eve supper, Advent wreath ablaze, and, as the clock approached eight, the kids began squabbling. In a stroke of genius, Jim and I nixed our planned sugar cookie feast and movie marathon, and instead popped the younger two into the bathtub, dressed them in brand-new jammies, and tucked them into bed for a “nap.” Surprisingly, they didn’t protest: as this was neither a real bedtime nor a real naptime, they knew they would soon be out and about—in the middle of the night.

We asked the older two to lie down and rest, “just in case” and they promptly—accidentally—fell asleep, too. Jim took the opportunity to settle in on the couch where he could chat with me … or take a snooze, himself.

I had a couple of glorious hours in the company of Cary Grant as I watched The Bishop’s Wife while I puttered around the kitchen, wrapping gifts and finishing last-minute tasks. Tasks that would normally be accomplished after Mass and in the wee hours of the morning; hours that are clearly for reading—ahem, sleeping.

With my to-do list completed, I awoke the kids from their slumber.

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Here is my rebellion: I decided not to make Daisy and Rooster change into church clothes. They were sleepy, and they were exceptionally unmotivated to change out of their warm cocoons and into a scratchy dress or chilly dress pants or “pinchy” shoes.

Instead, Daisy wore her red-and-green plaid flannel nightgown with her long, caramel-colored hair hanging in loose waves down her back: she looked like she had come straight out of The Nutcracker. Rooster was cozy in his green-and-white elf jammies, bright-eyed and grinning. I looked them over skeptically, but really couldn’t find any reason that they didn’t look appropriate—or adorable—in such non-church-like attire.

Click to tweet:
It often feels as if we are in a competition with our friends and family members over whose calendar is the busiest, over who is the most weary. #catholicmom

Once we were at the church, Jim and “The Bigs” joined my dad in the vesting sacristy and, as I guided “The Littles” through the narthex, I had a moment of nerves: was bringing my kids to Christmas Mass clad in their pajamas considered offensive?

Even more of a concern: what will my mom think?!

I didn’t worry long: Mom was standing off to the side, beaming at the kids and exclaiming that it was such a great idea to dress them for the time of day. Other parishioners were just as forgiving: there were some kind comments, some giggles, and some wistful smiles from elderly couples: most importantly, though, my sleepy kids were comfortable and happy.

The pews were full but certainly not packed the way they always are at the earlier Christmas Masses, during which we usually sat cheek by jowl, overheated and attempting to corral our winter coats; panicking over the climb out of the pew over other people’s kneelers to the restroom; or the distraction of people sipping on their contraband Starbucks, chatting through Mass.

As the choir sang Christmas hymns before Mass began, I noticed something important.

I was not frazzled.

I was not overwhelmed.

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The kids’ rest had allowed them to take the edge off their sleepiness and allowed me to take a breath, to order myself to worship, to focus on and appreciate the miracle of the Birth of Baby Jesus.

Advent is a time to slow down. It often feels, though, as if we are in a competition with our friends and family members over whose calendar is the busiest, over who is the most weary. Parties, school programs, meal-prepping, music recitals, cookie-making, gift buying and wrapping … all definitely good things, but all distractions from the most important thing: making space for the Infant Jesus to enter into our very souls.

For me, making space for Jesus was accidental. By trading one tradition for another and allowing the kids to actually be kids (and dress accordingly), I found quiet in a frenetic time.

As for Digit and Duke? They did just fine.

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