Every Sunday morning, we sat four rows back in the pews of St. John Vianney Church, my two brothers in corduroy along the aisle, my mom at our center, and me and my sister in our lacy Gunne Sax dresses on her right. There were five of us in all, minus my dad, who was not Catholic and therefore no t in attendance. This meant that all our Catholic formation was the purview of our mom, who carried the torch of faith stridently and alone. It was our mom who taught us to genuflect, who gripped me and my sister’s shoulders tightly if we flicked each other’s ears during Mass, and who cupped her hands around her face after Communion, a habit we modelled our own post-Communion posture after. Our mother alone exemplified what regular faith practice looked like in our house, and because her faith was so large and consuming, the absence of my dad’s contribution was not as keenly felt as it could be. Still, I could not help but wonder what two parents in the pew might feel like. At Mass, my eyes frequently wandered to the dad of a family seated in the aisle to our right. I wondered what conversations they had in the car on the way to church. Did he quiz them on their Baltimore Catechism on school mornings? Did he pray the Rosary with them in the evening? Did he understand the difference between venial and mortal sins? While my dad was never antagonistic toward Catholicism throughout our childhood, he never showed any interest in converting. On Sunday mornings, he read the newspaper, made waffles, and waited for his Catholic family to return. During those years, I could not know what it meant to have a father next to me in the pew. I could not know what that paternal spiritual force would feel like or how it could have contributed to my understanding of God as Father. I only knew I wished my dad was more like the dad who sat in the aisle to the right of me and my sister.    Divided faith households are common enough. My mom’s ability to raise four Catholic children whose faiths are still active decades later is evidence that the gift of faith can be brought about one-handed. And yet, my siblings and I all chose Catholic spouses, a choice that indicates we all wanted something different for our futures. Having lived through its absence, we understood that the sharing of a spiritual practice matters. But this is not a story of absence. It is ultimately a conversion story. After years of only five of us representing our family of six in the Church, my dad converted. His motivation was a profoundly sad one. My sister, the girl in the lacy dress next to me all those years in the pew, died suddenly in her 20s. My dad watched the rest of us cling to our faith and find comfort in the Church while he had nothing to hold onto. He became Catholic within a year of her death with my ever faith-filled mom in charge of his catechesis. I was in my 20s when we were finally able to share a pew and a faith with him. It was odd at first having him there, walking up for Communion with us, reciting the Nicene Creed in union with us, and hearing him say the Our Father without adding the Lutheran ending. Who was this guy? What was he doing here suddenly? But as his faith and participation grew, I came to finally know what I had been missing. A few months after my mom’s death, my dad came to me excitedly after Communion and said he realized as he was approaching the altar that when he was receiving Communion, he was as close to our mom as he was ever going to be until he sees her in heaven. “What do you mean?” I asked, assuming he meant feeling connected to her now that he understood Communion was not merely a symbol. “Well,” he answered, “She’s with Christ and I’m receiving Christ in the Eucharist, so she’s there, and I know I’m so close to her then.” The thought of that can still bring me to tears. My 11-year-old self would never have believed she would have a father who fully understood Christ’s present in the Eucharist and the union of souls in heaven in this way. In a million years, she never could have guessed that she’d be learning so much about her faith from a parent even after her mother died. Now on Sundays, I marvel at my children’s luck as they cozy up to my husband during the homily and kneel next to him through the Liturgy of the Eucharist. Happily, they will never know that absence. Their eyes will never wander to other families and wonder what it’s like to have a dad in the pew next to them. As I participate in Mass, I too am without that absence. Having had the gift of two faith-filled parents, when I walk up to receive Communion, I now know that both of my parents are just on the other side of the Eucharist joyfully, expectantly waiting. The post Two in the Pew appeared first on Today's Catholic. ...read more read less