Every Sunday at St. Martin’s Church
in San Jose, a 4-year-old girl
named Camille comes running to the row of seats near the back where my father
sits and throws her arms around him. This stern 91-year-old man melts. “My girlfriend,”
he calls her. Camille is a beautiful child with long wavy hair, dewy skin and
big blue eyes. Dad often talks about her, telling me how smart and fearless she is,
how she already knows how to read, how she’s starting school next year. Visiting
from Oregon, I watch them, so
jealous I could weep.
Camille has a 2-year-old brother and a 1-year-old sister (no
Catholic jokes, please). They are all beautiful children and a handful for
their parents. The mom and dad spend the Mass feeding them Cheerios, reading to them,
shushing them, and taking them out when they get too squirmy. I don’t envy them
that part of it.
During the sermon, the littlest girl stares up at my father,
raises her tiny hand, and Dad matches his giant hairy brown hand against it. In
this sweet moment, I realize how much my father actually likes little children
and I could die for not having given him any, for not making him a grandfather.
My father keeps the family’s Christmas card, with pictures
of all the kids, on the piano with pictures of me and my brother and my brother’s
kids.
Before Mass, Dad introduced me to the young parents, and the
mother told Camille, “This is his little girl all grown up.” Yes, I am my
father’s little girl, still going to church alone with him when I visit California
and staying with the choir back in Oregon
because otherwise I’d be going to Mass alone.
At the sign of peace, my father hugs me and then I see
Camille reaching up for me. She kisses me on the cheek, the softest sweetest
butterfly kiss. How I wish I could hold on to it forever. If only that perfect
family were mine.
Know what I mean?
2 comments:
A beautiful and painfully honest essay. Yes, I do know what you mean. Your entire blog is full of experiences which are only too familiar to me. At various times I have put a pause on attending church because of its aching emphasis on family life. I take comfort in the idea that God holds our hopes and imaginations in His heart and there, makes them real. He wipes every tear from our eyes, and makes each soft kiss from little girls, our own to keep. Blessings.
Thank you, Anonymous. I will try to keep your lovely comment in mind. Blessings to you, too.
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