First, Last, and Only

It was 4 a.m., and my body jolted me awake. No crying baby yet? I thought to myself. Astounded that I actually got five hours of uninterrupted sleep for the first time in over two straight months, I lay there, unsure what to do with myself. I made the wise choice to close my eyes and go back to sleep. 

6 a.m., and once again, my body woke me up…still, no crying baby yet? I couldn’t believe it. My baby slept through the night. Something that rarely happens. I felt like a new woman! Like I could take on the world! This must be what normal people feel like when they sleep! I made the executive decision that I would bring my toddler and me to daily Mass that morning. 

So began the morning ritual of diaper changes and avoiding any number two emergencies, rushing to throw on a nice dress, making our breakfasts, and packing us up in the car to get to Mass on time. Admittedly, we were still a little late. Ugh, the readings have started. I had a moment of frustration with myself because I just wished my season of life was slower, more controlled, and, well…perfect for Jesus. 

As I enter the church, pushing my toddler in his stroller, I smile widely as I see a dear parishioner husband and wife in their usual seats. I join them, and they greet my son with hugs and kisses. 

The responsorial Psalm was fitting: “The Lord is my shepherd; there is nothing I shall want. In verdant pastures he gives me repose; Beside restful waters he leads me; he refreshes my soul.” (Psalm 23:1-3)

This is right where I am supposed to be, I thought, with a breath of relief.

I kept thanking the Lord that I was there, present, and alert, showing up to be with Jesus and teaching my son that He comes first in life.

Then the priest began his homily. He shared, “Every time I celebrate Mass, I do so as if this is the first time I have ever celebrated it. The last time. And the only time.” I got goosebumps thinking about this priest’s disposition of heart towards Jesus for every single Mass. 

He continued, “What if this was your first Mass?” Immediately, as he prompted us, I started to imagine how differently my day and heart would have been earlier that morning. I most definitely would not have shown up late to Mass, and not just on time, but early. It brought me back to the emotions I had being confirmed in the Catholic Church, and how long I had waited and prepared my heart to do so for that Sacrament. The excitement, the giddiness, the pure joy of expressing my love to Jesus in such a final way. 

“What if this was your last Mass?” The priest added. My soul tightened hearing the potential of what it would be like if it was the last time ever receiving Jesus in the Eucharist. My heart ached at the idea, and I was soberly reminded of the reality that we aren’t guaranteed or promised every single day.

Memento mori. A Latin phrase meaning, “Remember that you must die.” As cheesy as it is, we must live like each day is our last. In this case, we must strive to love Jesus, honor Him, adore Him, and embrace Him as if it is our last. I thought of the first apostles who lived this reality. Loving Jesus for the apostles after His death and resurrection came with having to do so on the run, in fear of persecution and death. 

The priest concluded, “And what if this was your only Mass? You only got one.”

I remembered my time as an FMC missionary in Ecuador seven years ago, the very remote communities we served, and how sometimes it was years (or sometimes people’s first) since a priest came to celebrate Mass for the people in that town. How easy it is to take for granted the accessibility of Catholic churches in America, not to mention all of the options for Mass times!

“Would you have shown up differently today? Would you have prepared your heart in a different manner?”

Yes. A resounding, absolute yes, I said to myself in response to the priest’s final question. A growing list began to emerge in my mind; I would’ve been here hours earlier. If this was my last and only Mass, I would have brought my toddler and me up to the very front, unashamed of the noises and demands he makes or the looks we would receive. Maybe I would have even laid on the ground and just prostrated myself the whole time before Jesus. My hands would be raised out of worship for Christ. So much would be different.

Guilt crept in. I’ve been fighting this overwhelming feeling of doing everything wrong lately…between parenting and putting God first in all that I do.

But what I am understanding—and believe was the priest’s intention—is that these thought-provoking questions were not meant to shame me, but to show me. To show me that, much like the responsorial Psalm, Jesus is our Good Shepherd. He is gentle, loving, and kind. He is patient and refreshes our soul. 

And then I felt the Lord say, “You did choose Me. You showed up. I’m not asking you to change your son and this unique time of motherhood. I’m not asking you to be perfect, Kellie. All I want you to know is that I see your heart; I love you; you are Mine, and you can always come and find Me in the Eucharist, where you can rest.”

I believe the Lord is inviting all of us to approach Him as if it is the first, the last, and the only time we ever will. Maybe this is just a much-needed, honest conversation with Him. Maybe it is making it to that daily Mass once a week, or setting a reminder on Saturday to finally meet Jesus in the Sacrament of Reconciliation. Whatever it is, He is there. He loves you, and you can rest in Him.