All In Passing

Eating Jesus made me feel closer to Heaven and gave me something I could share with Sr. Mary Frances when she accused me of not loving God. I would tell her I practiced all the time and was getting holier by the day. I recreated the sacrament of communion at home, with the help of Wonder Bread, Welch’s grape juice and the love of a good cat, Muffy, making me a better Catholic.

When I was in third grade at Holy Names Academy, I had problems with the nuns. Or maybe they had problems with me. They espoused all this love of God but honestly, I think all they loved was the power they held over scared, lost little girls. I bonded with my English teacher—a non-nun—but any relationship with the nuns was no better than being at home. They commanded respect but how can you revere a woman who’s subservient to a man (albeit a pretty famous one), is afraid to confront her life choice and enjoys making girls squirm?

Sister Mary Frances once told me that I would have a hard time getting into Heaven and this worried me because my mother had told me that she wished I had died instead of Maureen, the sister before me. I was afraid this meant I might die soon which caused me to tense my whole body and shake when I pretended to pray in Chapel.

I had to fake prayer because another nun told me I was selfish asking God to give me things for myself, so whenever I tried to pray I fought the urge to ask for a new sweater, a new bike or a mom who didn’t shoot daggers at me when I walked past her room.

Communion was a chance to get out of the pew and stretch my legs, grab a snack, and it signaled the service was near its end. I refused to genuflect fully, a small rebellious act, but when I got to the priest and he placed the wafer on my tongue I would have sworn I was cleansed of all sin. So days when I needed a boost I’d gather the bread and juice and head for under the kitchen table where Muffy would usually be found sleeping, and I would play Priest, recreating not only communion but confession as well.

Turned out my cat had committed many sins and she was circling the edges of Hell. She’d killed many, tortured even more and peed in the house. She also stole food and broke a vase as she tiptoed on the mantle, weaving in between the cobalt blue glassware. I had the power to stop her in some of these instances but chose not to, making us both sinners, destined for Hell.

The bread did wonders for me when I hollowed out the middles and made flat wafer-like discs for my improvised communion. Even Dad liked it.

“What are you doing down there Mary?”

“Um, nothing.”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing. Did you just bless the cat?”

“Kind of.  I don’t want her to go to Hell.”

“Believe me, she won’t be the first one in this family to take that trip. Bless me.”

“But you don’t believe.”

“You don’t either. You just don’t know it yet. Give me some Jesus.”

By now Dad had lowered himself to the floor and was sitting next to the cat. I turned and told him to stick out his tongue, then placed a lumpy wafer in his mouth.

“I’ll take the wine too.”

I handed him the grape juice and he drank the whole glass.

“Your mother will have a fit if she sees you took so much bread. I’ll tell her I dropped it if she asks.”

“Thanks Dad.”

“Bless me again, for I have truly sinned.”

The Communion and Confession sessions definitely served their purpose as they gave me a chance to feel comfort in the confines of my skirted kitchen table, but Dad was right, soon I’d move on to a different God, a higher power no less, but one to whom I would turn in crisis.

In our house Jameson’s Irish Whiskey was our snake oil elixir. It healed everything. Once I began having tooth-troubles I was given the family cure-all and found that the benefits to putting up with the nasty taste delivered a calm I had never felt before. A sense of peace. A quietness inside my head.

Later I would find cigarettes, Valium and other substances that carried me away from self-doubt, emotional isolation, and fear. Dealing with my issues wouldn’t start until my 30’s but embracing what God was providing me with to cope, well, that was his best gift of all. And as for Sr. Mary Frances, I hope only that she found a way to embrace grays in her life while rejecting the blacks and whites she fearfully clung to. I hope she found peace within herself and is no longer dependent on the teachings of a church that instills fear to control its followers. I hope she found happiness. I hope she can smile. Amen.