Watching him serve, and remembering how love remains

Watching him serve reminded me that love does not have to be loud to be holy.

I was kneeling before Mass, saying my welcome and praise prayers to the Lord, thanking Him for the chance to be there. The church was settling. People were finding their seats.

Then I looked up and saw my son.

He was serving that morning. He walked over to the altar candles in his alb, lit them carefully, bowed, and stood up straight. There was something reverent in the way he moved. Not rushed. Not careless. He moved with total respect for God.

I smiled a little and thanked God for allowing me to catch this moment.

It was not a big dramatic moment. It was just a father looking at his son and realizing, once again, how blessed he is. I felt that quiet swell of pride rise up in my chest. He is growing into a young man. He is not a little boy anymore, even though part of me still sees him that way.

On Sundays like this, my wife is usually in the choir and my son is serving. So, for most of Mass, I am sitting there by myself until it is time for me to go up and help distribute Communion as an Extraordinary Minister of Holy Communion (EMHC). I am not really alone, of course. I am surrounded by the Church. I am surrounded by prayer. But in that little family sense, I am sitting there without them beside me.

My wife is using her voice. My son is serving at the altar. And I am kneeling there, watching both of them give something to the Lord.

Then the Gospel began.

“For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him might not perish but might have eternal life.” (John 3:16)

I have heard that verse my whole life. All Christians have. It is one of those verses that can become so familiar we almost stop hearing it. It shows up on signs, shirts, bumper stickers, the end zone, and everywhere else. But that morning, it sounded a little different.

I had just been looking over at my son. I had just felt that fatherly love rise up in me. Then John’s words spoke of the Father giving His only Son.

I do not pretend to understand the depth of that love. I cannot. My love is human. It is limited. It gets tired. It gets impatient. It needs grace. God’s love is not like mine in size or perfection. If anything, my love is only a small reflection of His.

But in that moment, as a father, I felt the verse in a new way.

Later, during the Consecration, it was my son’s job to ring the Sanctus bells. Maybe it is the musical talent he gets from his mother, but he does not ring them quietly. He rings them loud and proud. If you did not know something holy was happening, you sure did when those bells rang.

And honestly, I loved it.

The bells are not there for show. They wake the heart up. They draw our attention to the altar. They remind us that this moment is different from every other moment. Heaven is touching earth. Bread and wine are becoming the Body and Blood of Jesus.

And there was my son, helping call the church’s attention to the Lord.

Another little smile.

Then a bit later after the Lord’s Prayer, as the Lamb of God began, that was my cue to move and take my place near the others who serve as EMHCs. As I walked past my son, he stepped out from the line of servers and gave me a hug, and said, “Peace be with you.”

I do not know if he knew what that did to me, but I walked to my station with tears in my eyes.

Not sad tears. Happy tears. Grateful tears. The kind that come when your heart is too full and has nowhere else to go.

There I was, preparing to help bring Jesus to others in the Eucharist, and my son had just given me peace.

That is something I will carry in my heart forever.

After Mass, once the final song ended and the procession moved out, my son’s job was to hurry back to get the candle snuffer and put out the candles near the altar. I stayed on my knees, praying and watching him. He moved around the altar again, putting out the candles, bowing, showing reverence in those small actions that most people probably did not notice.

But I noticed.

A father always notices those things.

My wife came from the music room and caught me kneeling there with a little grin on my face. She asked what I was smiling at, and I pointed with my eyes toward our son.

She looked over, saw him, and understood.

We stood there together, hand in hand, watching him. Both of us proud. Both of us grateful. Both of us seeing the same young man, but probably also remembering the little boy he used to be.

That is one of the strange things about being a parent. You see all the ages at once. You see the baby. You see the toddler. You see the child who needed help tying shoes. You see the kid who made you laugh. You see the young man standing straight in an alb, serving the Lord.

And through all of it, one thing remains.

He is my son.

That does not mean everything is perfect. There are times when he and I do not see eye to eye. There are times we frustrate each other. There are times I have to correct him, and there are times I need to look at myself and realize I could have been more patient. There are times when words come out wrong, on both sides.

But none of that changes the truth.

He is my son, and I love him.

That love does not turn off because of a hard day at work. It does not disappear because of a disagreement about a video game. It does not depend on him getting everything right doing homework. It is part of who I am now. For thirteen years, I have had the gift of being called Dad, and that name has changed me.

With Father’s Day coming up, I have been thinking more about what it means to be a father, and also about my own dad.

My dad and I had our issues. We did not always see things the same way. There were hard places in our relationship, like there are in many families. But no matter what, I knew he loved me. Maybe he did not always say it the way I wanted. Maybe I did not always understand it at the time. But looking back, I can see it.

He loved me because I was his son.

And maybe that is why John 3:16 hit me so deeply that morning. The verse did not come to me as an idea. It came to me through the sight of my own son serving at Mass. It came through candles and bells. Through a bow. Through a hug. Through the words, “Peace be with you.”

“For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son.”

That is where I want to leave it.

Not with a perfect explanation of fatherhood. Not with a deep theological answer. Just with gratitude.

Gratitude for my son in an alb, for my wife’s hand in mine, for my dad who loved me even when we did not always see things the same way, and for the Father who loves us more than we can understand.

It reminds me that love is not only something we feel when everything is easy. Love remains. Love corrects. Love forgives. Love watches quietly from the pew and smiles.

So maybe this week, notice the love right in front of you. And when you hear John 3:16 again, do not rush past it.

Let it speak.

God so loved the world.

He loved us enough to give His Son.

And because of that love, we are His children.