Last weekend, our oldest child was confirmed. I've never seen a full-blown confirmation ceremony before, because my husband and I were both confirmed by priests (with permission from the bishop) in small, private ceremonies. The sacrament was the same, but this mood this time was very different: the bishop was there, with his gleaming mitre and gilded crosier and concelebrants; the Knights of Columbus filled the aisles of the church, the altar boys were out in full force, and there were nearly thirty candidates for confirmation, all young, lovely, and, as least as I could tell from my seat, solemn and sincere. There was nary a Desiree or Destinee among the saints' names chosen. There was an Ignatius; a John the Baptist; an Agnes of Rome.
The DRE told me that she thought there were at least a few genuine conversions of heart over the course of the prep classes, and I believe her. But did I mention that they were young? So young. They went up, one by one, to be sealed with the Holy Spirit, and went back to their seats, smiling with shyness or confidence; and as I watched, I felt precisely the same way as I feel when I see a baptism: oh, children, you have no idea.
It's not a bad feeling, or a critical one. It's a sensation of joy and anticipation, with a tiny bit of fear, as I see someone bathed in grace, innocently unaware of how that grace will begin to work once the dressy clothes are washed and put away, and daily life resumes. It's the same sensation I have when I see a wedding. So many people think the wedding day is a culmination of something, when really, it's just a beginning.
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