Just moments before he had been running a little car up and down the pew when he'd noticed the Stations of the Cross on the wall. He whispered to his mom and gestured towards them. She leaned down and whispered in his ear and he turned towards the crucifix, with his tiny pointer finger raised and said, "That guy?"
Now, his little hands gripped the ciborium and his eyes focus on his destination as he made his way towards the priest. The priest who has explained to us that the procession of gifts is about our journey towards Christ.
As his two little hands reached out to meet the priest's the gap between the giver and receiver held something so earnest and innocent that tears welled up and pooled at the corners of my eyes. It was a blink your eyes and miss it moment.
Occasionally I get the impression from some people that they feel sorry for me stuck in the boon-docks in a tiny church with a handful of people showing up on a good Sunday. A church where someone needs to go early and turn up the heat so we can get through the Mass with our coats off. But no one can orchestrate moments like the one described above. They are pure gift and I receive them gratefully; the gap between the giver and receiver holds so much promise.