For weeks, no months, there had been warning. Preparations both spiritual and logistical. But none of this needed to bother me. I had become a godfather eight years before and accepted the title in the hope that I’d be able to see more of my friends, the mum and the dad. The role, of course, became greater than that and a relationship blossomed with young Caspar. I’m no spiritual guardian let it be said, but more an avuncular presence, a provider of postcards from exotic locations, a bestower of matine trips to the Savoy (we’re not fond of Parnell St.), a slipper of occasional fivers or Roald Dahl classics.
When the prospect of Holy Communion arose I felt a twinge of cynicism. This boy had only been to mass once, and that time was only a necessary drag in order to view the relics of St. Valentine in Whitefriar St. Church. A true romantic in the making maybe but from what I can remember he wasn’t best impressed – by the relics or the ceremony. Also I remembered the money-mad phase I went through aged seven or eight, which I hope I was not alone in experiencing. Scrooge was more the spiritual compass point then than Jesus. Had Caspar seen the communion dividend of his cousins before him and wanted a piece of the pie? You don’t like to think that way but…
Read Ronan's full essay here.
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