My sisters, Kathy and Mary Ruth, and I joined the congregation after our father, on his deathbed, asked that we return to the church. I was eleven, Mary Ruth twelve, and Kathy thirteen. I’d always felt guilty about attending mass only on holidays and for weddings and funerals. I was eager to study the Catechism, but Mommy doesn’t like the local Catholic parish, so we didn’t just join another parish; we switched religions.
I thought I’d go to Hell for going along with this and felt way out of place—until last year, when Becky moved to Hinsdale, one of Chicago’s most affluent suburbs, from a small blue collar town in southern Illinois. The day she showed up at Sunday school I was drawn in by her Pepsodent smile, azure eyes and heart-shaped face framed by dark brown curls that bounce like mini Slinkys. I still feel like an impostor every time I veer from the Catholic version of The Lord’s Prayer and ask the Lord to forgive my “debts” instead of my “trespasses,” but I keep my anxiety in check because this church has brought friends to me.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish