Tomorrow

Tomorrow, my sweet baby, we will go to Mass.  Tomorrow we will rise early, and I  will feed you, if you will let me.  Tomorrow I will dress you in a pretty dress, because it will be Sunday.  Your daddy will put on a coat and tie and drive us all to the Church.  Tomorrow I will wear a chapel veil, as St. Paul says, "because of the angels," and out of respect for the Eucharist. 
Tomorrow you and I will sit together in a pew near the back, not far from the cry room, just in case you need to nurse, while your daddy goes to sing chant in the choir.  Tomorrow the priest will come in and process down the aisle with the altar boys, and then kneel down and intone the Asperges, and sprinkle everyone with holy water while the choir sings "Sprinkle me with hyssop and I shall be cleansed.  Wash me and I shall be whiter than snow."  It is a reminder of baptism.  Do you remember your baptism?  It wasn't so long ago.
Tomorrow you will watch the priest and servers go up and down the aisle.  Tomorrow you will look at the stained glass windows, and smile at anyone who is sitting behind us, and smile at St. Anthony and St. Patrick if we sit near their statues.
Tomorrow you will watch everything with great interest until you get tired, and then you will fuss, and sometime during the sermon you will fall asleep (just don't tell Father!).  Tomorrow, all during the
Canon, I will kneel on the floor behind the back pew, because there isn't enough room to kneel in the pew and hold you.
And tomorrow I will receive Our Lord Jesus.  I will go and kneel at the Communion rail, with you asleep on my chest, and I will receive Holy Communion, as you also will do when you are old enough to understand.  And my heart will ache because I long for that day, just as today I am longing for tomorrow.