Child and Church Collide
My parent’s dreams of a daughter with the perfect Catholic education, ended when I was in third grade. Devout Catholics and both the products of parochial schools, my parents believed that reading, writing, and arithmetic should be taught in the context of the Gospels, thereby providing me a moral compass for life. The financial benefit of me wearing the same plaid uniform and ugly saddle shoes every day, only added to the appeal.
I dreaded attending the daily Mass, which was celebrated in Latin each morning — a language I did not speak or understand. I was frequently chastised for daydreaming and for in general, being a weak kneeler. Otherwise, I did well in school, except that the Benedictine Nuns saw my incessant curiosity about the contradictions of Catholicism as a weakness in faith, telling me, “Laurie Kae, you are a child of little faith and today I will pray for your soul.” They would encourage me, emphatically, to do the same. I didn’t know how to pray for my soul but I pictured myself pleading with the Almighty in the same tone that I used with my parents when I wanted to stay up past my bedtime.
It all became unbearable, as I got ready to make my First Communion and the rigors of confession set in. The problem was the frequency that the Church required. I was expected to go to confession every Thursday, in order to take Communion every Sunday. I simply didn’t have enough sins for this regimen. I was a good kid — one that didn’t lie, cheat or steal. Yet every Thursday at confession, I was expected to have sinned and truly be sorry for having committed these sins. So I did the only thing I could think of, I started recycling my sins — or sin stories rather, careful to alternate the Priests hearing my confession, so I wouldn’t be discovered.
After several months, the hypocrisy of making up sins stories started to feel like a shell game with God — one I didn’t think HE would appreciate. I took the opportunity to state my case when it was my turn to share in front of the class. I cleared my throat and using my best outdoor voice, I began, “I am a good girl and I don’t have a bunch of sins to confess each week. I think making up sins for confession is just like lying, but even worse because it is lying to a Priest. So I am not going to make up sins anymore, and I am not going to go to confession until I have a real sin to confess.” Sitting back down I was relieved that my first public display of empathy was over. So I was quite confused when a red-faced, Sister Franco sent me to the office, where I was told to sit on a bench and “think hard about what I had done.”
My Mother picked me up looking defeated and as if she had failed to produce the perfect, Catholic, clone-child. I kept a low profile through dinner and bath time and if my parents discussed my episode at school, I was not aware of it. That night as my Mother tucked me in, I began to sob and again, tried to plead my case. She dried my tears, hugged me tightly and said, “Laurie Kae, you are an original and not like most little girls. Today was the first time you didn’t fit in somewhere, but it won’t be the last. Tonight I will tell God you won’t be going to Catholic school next year — and it will be fine.” And It was.
In fourth grade, my teacher was just out of school. She embraced my curiosity, by teaching me how to look up all my “whys” in the encyclopedia, and to write letters to experts, posing my questions. As a result, I have a collection of letters from scientists, authors and congressmen, who were more than thrilled to write back to an inquisitive, 10-year old child and even the eventual, subsequent grownup. Armed with this magnetic north, I’ve fueled my insatiable curiosity and navigated a rich and rewarding life. ~Laurie
