That's me in the corner, losing my religion

Today is an anniversary, of sorts. Sixty-three years ago, I made my First Holy Communion. 

I was a pretty religious child, but in a lazy sort of way. I never enjoyed praying, and always found saying the rosary torture. I wasn't one of those kids who'd get up early during Lent to make it to pre-school Mass. When I did go to Mass (Sundays and holy days), I spent most of my time daydreaming and staring at the (fabulous) stained glass windows of my church. I hated memorizing questions and answers from the Baltimore Catechism. 

Still, I lapped up books about the saints. My family "subscribed" to a monthly delivery of Vision Books, Catholic books for kids. Most of them were lives of the saints, but others were about non-saint Catholics, like Lydia Longley, The First American Nun. (Lydia was a little, late 17th century Protestant girl from Groton, Massachusetts. She was kidnapped by Indians and brought to Quebec where she found religion, Catholic-style.) Books like More Champions in Sports and Spirit, which chronicled the exploits of Catholic athletes like Stan Musial and Herb Score. (As a child, I was disappointed that Ted Williams wasn't a Catholic, while Babe Ruth was.)

I fantasized that, if Communists came to Worcester threatening to kill all the Catholics, I would put my hand up, knowing that the Commie was going to plug me right through the eyes with his Kalishnikov.

I liked the songs, and can still belt out a mean "Hail Holy Queen." And, if you ever come up short on the corporal and spiritual works of mercy ("they number seven, practice the corporal/spiritual works of mercy, and go to heaven"), I can sing you a tune listing them all. (It's earworming me right now. Looks like practicing the corporal works of mercy is the only thing about Catholicism that took. Hmmmm.)

On occasion, I entertained thoughts of becoming a nun, even though I would rather have been a priest, like Fighting Father Duffy who got to go to war. 

When JFK was killed, a week or so before I turned 14, I had a flash thought that, having been killed on Friday, he would rise from the dead on Sunday. Just like a certain someone.

But, in truth, I was never fully with the program.

The First Holy Communion ceremony in our diocese was traditionally held during May, but "my" year, they had to push it off until June 1st. This was because there was a mini-pandemic that hit the second grade at Our Lady of the Angels, and tonsilitis swept through the class. We had about 50 kids per class, and I remember one day when only four kids were present. 

Like everyone else in my class, I came down with tonsilitis, which caused me to miss my grandmother's birthday party. Since the party was held at our house, I didn't miss it entirely, as our house was small and crowded with extended family members celebrating Nanny's 75th. I remember a parade of relatives I kinda-sorta knew - my father had a ton of first cousins - sticking their heads in my bedroom door to say hello. 

Although I couldn't swallow very well, I was served a piece of birthday cake. It was a whipped cream and fruit concoction, which was very disappointing. If I've held true to one belief during my life, it's the birthday cake should be chocolate and frosted with frosting, not whipped cream.

This was the weekend before my First Communion, and I fortunately bounced back for that event.

In fact, I even won the month-of-May calendar that Sister Aloise St. James had used to count down towards the blessed event. Each day, she put a different sticker - flower, bird, or - best of all - an angel - on each day as we ticked in off. A thing of beauty. I hung onto it for years, but it's now lost to the ages. But at the time: lucky me!

I remember little about the First Confession that preceded First Communion, other than that we had to rehearse our sins out loud, in our classrooms, while kneeling before Sister Aloise. I'm sure I faked up a couple of sins: talked back to my mother, fought with my sister, and got my "penance" - a couple of Hail Marys.

And then there was First Communion Day. Which was warm, just lovely. 

I loved my dress, which was a non-frilly, white organdy sailor-style dress. (My practical mother died it mauve and it became my good, Sunday dress for a year.) The veil was borrowed from a friend of my mother's whose daughter was older. White patent leather shoes, white anklets, white wrist-length gloves. I was a little splendor. 

In the lead up to First Holy Communion, the reception of the host was described as something that would yield a near orgasmic experience. Once that host was placed on your tongue, you would experience joy, peace, fulfillment, ecstasy...If you were truly worthy, there'd be a big old swoon.

I was going to be there for it!

Turns out the being worthy was something of a barrier to entry.

This should have come as no surprise. 

After all, it was drilled into us that, when he came up to us with the host, the priest would say:

Domine, non sum dignus ut intres sub tectum meum:Sed tantum dic verbo et sanabitur anima mea.

Lord, I am not worthy that thou shouldst enter under my roof. Say but the word, and my soul shall be healed.

I guess there was no one putting in the word for me, because once that host hit my little pink tongue, I came up way short on the ecstasy.

I mean, I tried. Walking back to the pew, I kept my gloved hands in the appropriate fingers pointed straight up position. I worked my face into a what I imagined was an ultra-pious look - a look if not worthy of a full-blown saint, at least up to the standards of Lydia Longley. I bowed my head to give thanks, just the way they'd drilled into us.

But no magic. Nada, zero, zip.

I felt cheated.

There was, of course, a non-catechism explanation for my lack of First Holy Communion oomph. You get out of it what you put into it. Apparently well-pointed fingers and a pious visage were not enough.

Obviously, I clung to belief long enough to think that JFK was going a resurrect himself. But the seeds of doubt were there, beginning on June 1, 1957. Even at the age of seven, I had a problem with it being my fault that I wasn't carried off into an ecstasy when the priest put that host on my tongue. 

So, June 1, 1957.

That's me in the corner, losing my religion...