Nicole went to Sunday school and to her friend Robin Polinksi’s 8th birthday party. She got some little play ink pads and stamps.

Danny and I took a small hammer out back and banged away at a roll of caps or “blow ups” as Danny likes to call them. He also knows these are the bullets to his long lost pistol that he got the morning of Nicole’s birthday and was allegedly stolen by one of her hoodlum friends after her birthday party.

We all scrambled to make St. Patrick’s 5:30 mass. (Hoping to get out 30 minutes sooner than IHM’s 6:00 mass… in time for 60 minutes!) While Kathy and I got dressed, the kids covered their hands with the stamps. Turns out the ink in the play ink pad is permanent, so after grabbing it from the kids, I went to church with ink on my hands just like Danny and Nicole.

We dove into Ted’s Honda Civic and, with only a vague idea of where St. Patricks was, we found it and drove in on the stroke of 5:30. Turns out the 5:30 mass at St. Patrick’s is really at 6:00 pm, so all but Kathy threw away the time in the parking lot with a frisbee. Nicole and Danny kicked through the leaves piled up by the cold, brisk winds of the past two days.

Kathy stayed inside. Too cold sensitive.

The priest had a long, elaborate sermon that tried to combine the parable of the 10 maidens and their torches with the Wizard of Oz. It was lost on all of us, and we didn’t get out of St. Patrick’s parking lot until 7:30. We missed 60 Minutes. Ted says we have a fair number of lates due us.

We did notice that Carol was quite right about not having her wedding at St. Patrick’s. No center aisle. I don’t know that we’ll go back. Not because of the aisle, but the priest and his pianist friend are a strange twosome. Plus, at the beginning of the mass we were told to turn to our neighbor and ask, “What prayers can I say to help you?” Sure enough, this man ahead of me did exactly that.

“I could use some help keeping these kids quiet this mass,” I joked.

“Very good,” said the man (who turned out to have a little girl with him much worse than Danny) and he went on, “And I would like help praying for those with out food or shelter tonight.”

Great.

“Actually, the boys in the Middle East could use our prayers,” I said. Then I realized that there weren’t going to be just males lined up to die in this war, so I hastily added. “The boys and the…” and it all kind of overwhelmed me in a millisecond that the familiar, haunting song “Bring the Boys Back Home” would be awkwardly more frightening this time.

“The boys and the girls need our prayers,” I added quietly.

“Yes,” said the man.

Danny and Nicole were very good for a little girl and a little boy.