During my childhood, my family and I belonged to the Catholic Church. As a Navy family, we lived in several places throughout the years, and in my first-grade year, we lived in Idaho Falls, Idaho. A naval base so far inland does appear odd, but my father was an instructor at the nuclear submarine school there. I went to Holy Rosary Catholic School, a part of Holy Rosary Church, where we attended.
The church was eerie, a huge building, solemn and quiet. Its stone walls and ornamentation seemed intimidating from the perspective of a little girl. Only the flickering candles pierced the gloom. They sat on a rack in the foyer, in red votive cups, and smoke rose from them, crawling up the walls to the ceiling. Statues of Mary and the Saints served to remind me I would be watched. To the left of the wounded Christ on the center crucifix, Mary stood as tall as I, but on a pedestal so as to oversee the comings and goings without hindrance. Flowers were placed at her feet by the parishioners, in hopes that the offering would get them on her good side. The Saints kept sentinel, dispersed at intervals along the sides of the nave, between the Stations of the Cross, a pictorial telling of the passion of Christ. A communion rail stood between the nave and the altar, appearing to my childish mind as a barrier meant to keep us from getting too close to God. Darkness prevailed inside, especially in winter, and with only the light from the stained glass windows and the candles, the red carpet and rich wood gave it the aura of a funeral parlor. It proved about as much fun, too. In church, we did not relax; there we must be on our best behavior. I remember sitting at mass one Friday morning, with my class and our teacher, Sister Marissa. I sat in the center of the pew, and Sister Marissa guarded the end. As the priest began the blessing of the communion elements, I made the colossal error of crossing my legs at the knee, and Sister Marissa’s eyebrows shot straight up. I sat out of her reach. Unable to rap my knee, she shot me a look that would have withered the strongest of people. I melted into the pew like hot wax from a candle.
My first confession served as my earliest memory of spiritual things. In the Catholic tradition, a person experiences the mercy of God in human terms only through confession. There, sins are purged and man becomes reconciled with God. I made my first confession in 1971, after the Second Vatican Council, but before the changes made there found their way into the day to day living of the Church. Soon after that, confession would be renamed Reconciliation, and seem much less scary. Oh, how I wish that it had happened sooner.
In the middle of January, the most barren month of the year, I waited in line with the other children, with a sense of dread in my stomach that could have rivaled that of the poor souls waiting in line at the guillotine during the French Revolution. The line moved too quickly and yet too slowly. I thought it would never end, and at the same time I dreaded the ending. The door to the confessional loomed like a prison gate. The pale, sweaty faces of my schoolmates as they left the confessional offered no comfort. Just when I thought I would lose my breakfast, my turn came. The confessional, a small room much like a closet and about the size of a phone booth, sported a padded kneeler and a screened portal to a similar, adjacent room, from which the ethereal voice of the priest pronounced penance and absolution. For years, I associated the voice of God with that of the priest from my first confession. Amazingly, I still wanted to know Him.
Two priests presided in our Church: Father Roger LaChance, who was a good friend of my parents; and Monsignor Verheuven, a rather intimidating individual with a strong German accent and a stern disposition. The Monsignor spent little time with the children, and never darkened the door of the school. He looked and sounded just like the German General Burkhalter of the T.V. show Hogan’s Heroes. He terrified me. I slipped timidly into the confessional, hoping that Father Roger’s voice would float through the screen. A gentle and caring man, he loved the children of his parish, and we all loved him. While confession loomed as a scary prospect for a child, it seemed less so with Father Roger. He knew me well enough to understand the reasons why I did the things I did. He saw through all of us children, and loved us anyway. I remember him as my first human example of how Jesus would act. It would be acceptable to lay open my seven-year-old heart to Father Roger.
I knelt down, since I was allowed only the choice of standing or kneeling, and God might strike me down if I stood. I stumbled through the opening phrases of the ritual I had memorized. “Bless me Father for I have sinned. This is my first confession.” Having gotten through the first part, and gained some confidence, I mentally rehearsed which sins I was willing to confess. I lied to my mom, but she caught me because she said it was written all over my face, so maybe I don’t need to confess that one. I called my brother a jerk, but that one shouldn’t count because he is one. So ran my thoughts, until the nasal tones of a stern German accent startled me out of my wanderings. Monsignor Verheuven. My stomach sank.
He was supposed to say “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit…”, and he probably did. To me, however, he may as well have said “You’re headed straight for hell, you rotten kid!” His tone frightened me so much that I forgot what my next response was to be, as well as which of my sins I had deemed tame enough to divulge. My response should have been, “Amen”, but I became flustered. Sins…I’m supposed to say my sins, I thought to myself, as I tried to regroup. “I lied to my mom, and I called my brother a jerk”, came out of my mouth, because the sins that I had decided to confess had flown from my mind. Next, I should have repeated the prayer of sorrow, but I was too busy praying that God would get me out of there. My mind could process only the fact that now the Monsignor knew I had fibbed to my mother and called my brother names. I was in deep kimchi. For all I knew, Monsignor Verheuven had a hot line to God: he was, after all, a monsignor, whatever that was. It sounded important enough; I figured he could send me up the river Styx without a paddle. Where, oh, where was Father Roger?
I couldn’t remember my penance. The rest of the day passed in a blur. At home, I prayed while I waited for the judgment to fall. I am sure I said enough Our Fathers and Hail Maries to cover my penance, but I never again darkened the door of a confessional. After that first experience, I pretty much stuck to the communal penance services, wherein the congregation as a whole silently confessed their sins to God, and the priest gave a general absolution. Even long after we left Idaho and Monsignor Verheuven became just a very scary memory, I still avoided the confessional. I’m sure that a corner of Purgatory is reserved in my name for several millennia. Thank God I don’t believe in Purgatory.
