Catechism class at Christ the King School. We tuck our math books in our desks and file to the back of the classroom for the small white catechism books on the back shelf in room 2B. As we do, Sister Mary erases the addition problems and when she turns around, she has a scratch of chalk dust on her black habit. An attempt at rubbing it off only makes it worse.
Today we are learning more about the insidious venial sins, which, for an 8 year old, seem inescapable and torturous, especially when we have so little control of our own lives. The church doesn’t seem to understand that sometimes I have to lie to my parents, that when I wished Michael would would break his arm, it was only because he kept aiming right at me in dodge ball, and I didn’t mean to think it, but I did. And then, it felt so good to think it, I thought it again. I cannot control that.
We are going over the exhaustive list again today, and Sister Mary has agreed to answer a limited number of what-if questions: what if we say a swear word when we pinch our finger in the locker? Is that a sin? What if we want to go to church but our parents want to do yard work so we can’t, is that a sin? If, when our aunt, a retired school teacher, takes us on a not-very-scenic tour of the local historic spots and spends 26 minutes in front of the plaque on one landmark or another, annotating the details as if there will be a test, is it a sin to say we enjoyed it, knowing that if we say we did, she will take us back home and serve us homemade peach ice cream? Is that so wrong?
Yes, yes it is.
Unable to bear anymore more second grade hypotheticals, Sister Mary reads to us from the Lives of the Saints. Many of us have our favorite saints, and though I love the particular stories, especially the children saints, the general narrative is always the same. The child has a profound loneliness, maybe because she has been orphaned and is now living in a convent or because he has been forced to spend long days herding sheep and goats, but whatever the case, silence surrounds them.
And then, the Holy Spirit appears. A dove. A flame. An apparition in a stone. A flower blooming in winter. The Lord speaks very clearly to the child, calling her to pray for lost souls and for people to keep the sabbath, which seems a profound responsibility for a child, but surely the Lord knows what he’s doing. Years later, the children become saints, so he must have been right.
Lesson over, we file down the hall to the church. We lower our voices, our eyes. Mass begins and we pray and pray and pray. Let us pray. In between the prayers, I worry. I worry that God will chose me, not because I am holy or good, but because I am not. God loves to prove his existence by taking the clearly very ordinary sinner and transforming her. What if I hear a voice asking me to join the convent? What if the Lord is calling me to abandon my family now and do nothing but pray all day. So many souls to save, there is precious little time for school. What if, to make the prayers more effective, I have to wear horsehair shirts that scratch me raw, but it’s all for the greater good?
Can I say no? Can I take my life out of the hands of God, even at 8 years old, and admit I have plans that involve both Broadway and a science lab? How much of this life is mine? In class, we are learning about “free will” but I can’t reconcile the freedom to say no with the possibility that if I say no, I will go to hell.
We are kneeling down with our heads bowed. I lean into the pew and rest my arms against the cool polished wood. I am terrified about what might happen in this quiet. Thinking only makes it worse.
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