The Book of Wine and Flowers

I can’t hold it in any longer. I have to tell you what I’ve seen in the Catechesis of the Good Shepherd atrium where I’m lucky enough to volunteer.

If you’re not familiar with it, I usually explain Catechesis of the Good Shepherd (CGS) as a Montessori-style method of religious education. But that’s a wild oversimplification.

CGS is more like lectio divina for children. Trained catechists (guides) prepare a special environment to help children come to know God and spend time in prayer and contemplation. The children hear, touch, and work with materials that help them understand the life of Jesus, stories from Scripture, the liturgical year, and things of the Church. 

These tactile experiences, set in an environment of peaceful quiet, offer each child a space where they can talk to God and draw closer to Him on their own. Their relationship with the Good Shepherd is nurtured in a very special way. (Here is my experience having my children in an atrium four years ago, before I became a catechist myself.)

Here’s the official description:

I love that it is described as a common religious experience for both children and adults, because sure enough, I often feel that I’m getting even more from it than the kids are. Their ardent love for Christ, their tirelessness in praising him, their simple trust and devotion — these things are a constant wonder and inspiration to me. I need to become more like them, and through being with them in the atrium, I see more than ever what it means that “A little child shall lead them.” 

But the truth is, I almost didn’t show up to the atrium at all this year. I have to admit it — at first, I didn’t want to volunteer. 

My friend Erica, who runs the CGS program, asked me to be a catechist last summer. I said no. It felt like too much; I had unpleasant visions of corralling screaming kids who didn’t want to listen to me. I do quite enough of that at home, and didn’t want to add any more. 

But she kept asking, and finally I listened to the prompting of the Spirit to say yes. I’m so glad I did.

There have, indeed, been moments of corralling kids who don’t want to listen to me. But there is so, so much more. The powerful and beautiful moments far outweigh anything else. 

Let me tell you a few stories of how I’ve seen God work in our little atrium at Notre Dame Parish in Clarendon Hills, Illinois.

Like in a Montessori classroom, the atrium has many low shelves with different “works,” or activities, on them. Each work is carefully designed to aid in the child’s contemplation and prayer. And each was lovingly handmade by a local member of the community, for the sake of our little ones in the atrium. 

As the year goes on, we catechists introduce the children to more and more of these works (children who have been in the atrium the previous year already can use most of them). Many works are themed to a particular time of year, such as works about Jesus’ birth at Christmas.

One day we introduced the work of “book making” in the atrium, and the children were delighted. Kids love to make books, and they worked hard binding their books with thread and writing and illustrating them. 

A child in the atrium brought me her book during the session. She’d given it the evocative name “The Book of Wine and Flowers” — when I told a friend about it later, she said, “That sounds like a Taylor Swift song!” 

The name came from her favorite atrium works: arranging flowers and pouring water and wine as though to prepare them for Mass. This child loved to read over and over the little sign next to the water and wine: “The water added to the wine is a sign of our union with Jesus.”

Let me show you what this six-year-old girl wrote inside her “Book of Wine and Flowers”:

A short time after Christmas, the children in the atrium were still thinking a lot about the names of Jesus: “Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.” They had learned these names during Advent when we talked about the prophets who foretold Christ’s coming.

I’m not quite sure how it began. Perhaps it was the little boy carrying a candle, or the little girl cradling a statue of the Infant Jesus. But at some point, I noticed that the children had started a procession around the atrium. 

The children love processions, in which they walk on a line designated for processions around and around the atrium. They hold aloft religious images and sing simple, beautiful songs about their love for God. 

We have processions all the time in the atrium, so I didn’t pay much attention at first. But slowly I began to realize that this one was different. This procession just didn’t end. 

The children kept singing, the same song, over and over. They never grew tired of singing “Come, Lord Jesus, come and be born in our hearts.” The only thing that varied is that they sometimes used the other names for Jesus from Isaiah’s prophecy, such as “Come, Prince of Peace, come and be born in our hearts.” They worked together seamlessly, with a sort of intuition, to make sure that their procession went on, and on.

When one child let the tune drop, another picked it up. When a child grew tired of lifting high the Cross, another took it from their arms and kept marching, never letting it be put down. Somehow they never wanted to stop.

For ten minutes this went on. Then twenty. Then thirty. The other catechists and I began to realize something extraordinary was happening here. We stood to the side, watching in wonder and growing awe, as each child took a turn in the procession. Nearly forty minutes passed before, finally, we were forced to bring the procession to an end as it was time for their parents to come pick up the children.

But what we saw that day changed us forever. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that I witnessed a glimpse of heaven, where the blessed sing the praises of Jesus without end and without growing weary. 

One day a little girl came to the atrium after a hard day at school. She’d gotten in trouble for calling names and had to go to the principal’s office, her mom said. We braced ourselves, expecting that her upset mood might affect her behavior that day.

As soon as she entered the atrium, she made a beeline for the model altar. After setting out the articles of the Mass on the altar cloth, she asked me to light the candles for her. 

I sat beside her, and heard her whisper, “I’m sorry, Jesus, for being mean at school today. Help me remember not to call people names.” No one had mentioned the incident or prompted her to say a thing: She wanted to talk to Jesus about what happened, and seemed to feel much better and calmer after that. 

The atrium is a place set aside for children to talk to Jesus. Where else, in their daily lives, do they have this opportunity?

A little girl who used to be in our atrium was preparing for her First Holy Communion. The parish asked that each child in the First Communion class draw what their First Communion meant to them for a banner. Let me show you what this child drew as she sketched drafts.

A little sheep, lying happy and close in the arms of its shepherd. A little girl, hugging Jesus. Holding hands with Jesus, the love between them visible.

This little girl no longer comes to the Atrium, but what she experienced there is still with her. She knows she belongs to the Good Shepherd, who calls her by name, who knows her and loves her, who walks with her always. What a gift the atrium is to each child who comes there.

And what a gift it is to us catechists. The children in our atrium are very young, just 3-6 years old. Many of them may not remember much of what they do there in later years. But we catechists continue to plant mustard seeds, trusting in faith that God will bring them to full bloom in these children’s hearts in ways that we can only imagine. 

And even if the children don’t remember what happened in the atrium later on, we catechists remember. 

I’ve told you only a tiny fraction of all that I have seen. I wish I could show you all the prayer cards and religious art on which the children work so diligently, the songs and heartfelt prayers I’m privileged to hear, the children’s meditative work filled with love for God. 

I see and I remember, and I stand in awe. I give thanks for the gift of the atrium. All I can do is cry out in wonder at the work God is doing in this humble place, in the hearts of his littlest sheep.