Max embarrasses his father at the altar

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.