The young miss wasn’t interested in the finer liturgical point I was attempting. She had been told (by someone who shall remain nameless) that a Saturday wedding counts for the Sunday obligation. (They did have the Gloria, per MR3.) When I was confronted with the suggestion to forego Sunday Mass upon our return from an out-of-town wedding, I responded:
That wouldn’t be my expectation.
Whereupon I was offered the classic teenage rebuttal:
Aren’t I old enough to make my own choice?
I could have launched into into the notion of making a responsible, informed choice. But I didn’t see that tack would get the conversation anywhere. Instead, I suggested she speak with one of the five priests at this wedding. Possibly a dispensation might be in the air.
That would be something with which I could sign on. Our good friend’s wedding (he and one of his best men helped us move into our new home nearly five years ago) came at a rather awkward time. The young miss had one final exam and a project due this past Friday. Two exams beckon tomorrow. And one or two more to finish up the school year Tuesday. This past year has been very demanding on many fronts. The young miss worked herself into a nausea attack Wednesday morning. She wants sophomore year to be over. Me too.
Dispensation granted. Maybe it was the optimal pastoral choice. The homily this morning, however, was far superior to a rather lengthy one at the Nuptial Mass. The young miss did have to poke at me when I was drifting into slumber about twelve minutes in. I suppose we could say we emerged from the weekend with a tie in homilies listened to. But don’t tell her I conceded that point.