Leaping to the communion rail, the boy
thrusts his hands up and giggles to himself.
Some adults behind us think a sweet elf
has come to lighten the service, his joy
at the alter a quality we all
should aspire to. Some think a noisy sprite
has been set loose in the church to make light
of Christ. They look up from their prayers appalled.
But he’s my son. He’s hardly innocent,
but not possessed. He’s a potential man
bumbling through his journey to the sacred.
He’s a child, and I know he never meant
to humor or entertain. Yet his small hands
hold the Host carelessly as I turn red.