Passing on the Altar Boy's Torch
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It is a fine Sunday morning and my wife, children, and I are at a traditional Latin Mass many miles from our home. A typical occurrence plays out. I have our one-year-old boy of perpetual-motion in a headlock as he tries to wrestle away from me towards the teleological aim for someone his age: the glorious freedom of racing down a church aisle. Somehow, as I try a different martial-arts hold on this feisty kid - he takes after his mother, you know - I still manage to carry an open Latin missal and give the semblance of being at prayer. Fake it till you make it, I always say. Glancing up at the sanctuary, I see two altar boys with the usual synchronized perfection one is accustomed to find at a reverent Catholic Mass. They look clean and professional. I am a hot mess. It is a surreal moment for me. How the tables have turned from when I was in their spotlessly clean shoes. Just then I notice one of the altar boys give the look . His serving partner just messed up. I imagine the er