Philip is desperate to be an altar server. Before, during, and after each and every mass we attend there is a good deal of, “I just can’t wait until I’m an altar server!” or “How much longer until I can serve?” or “Max is so lucky . . . ” For the record, he has at least another year and change before he can serve.  It’s promising to be a long wait.

It seems to have inspired a deep piety, though, and for that we can’t be unhappy.  Drawings of Saints are everywhere, he is an attentive and eager rosary pray-er and insisted yesterday that we pray the station of the cross. He volunteered to lead.

At the thirteenth station, he read with feeling:

“All you who pass by the way, look, and see if there be any sorrow like my sorrow.  My eyes are spent with weeping, my whole being is troubled, and my strength is poured out upon the earth, as I behold the cruel death of my Son, for the enemy has prevailed against him.  Call me not Naomi (that is beautiful), but call me Mara (that is, bitter) . . . ”

He read eloquently and with reflection.  It was moving.


But what he said was:

” – call me not Wyoming – that IS beautiful- but call me Mara . . . ”

He didn’t skip a beat.  The mix-up didn’t even register but Max held his breath trying to sort it out and I suppressed laughter while his sisters stood piously by.

It’s sound logic, really.  Wyoming IS beautiful . . .