Around age ten, I wore my favorite white blouse with small purple flowers to go to church with my mom and sister. There was a trim on the collar and cuffs. I was wearing some sort of skirt with dress shoes. It was a very hot day and the air, as my grandmother would say, was “close.” During the packed service I began to feel faint. As my vision blurred and my ears began to ring, I looked up at the fuzzy Jesus suspended on his cross above the altar. I thought, why are you doing this to me?
I remember making my first Holy Communion. Seeing the pictures now, the words “child- bride” go through my head. I liked the Blessed Mother statue I received that day, a gift from my grandparents. I enjoyed the party at my parent’s house afterward and the flowers another guest brought me. But I didn’t understand what the day was for.
Although my understanding of God was shallow, I knew that He existed. Around this same time in my life I had terrible growing pains that would often keep me awake at night. After a bad week where I had lost sleep over the pain, I found myself again trying to ignore the knots in my legs so I could get some rest. Feeling desperate, I rolled onto my stomach, clasped my hands and prayed silently to God, so as not to wake my sister in the bunk bed under me. I told Him my name and where I lived and said I figured since He was supposed to be able to do anything, I hoped He could hear my thoughts. I mentally explained the pain in my legs was keeping me up so long at night that I was tired every day at school. I asked Him to please, just for this one night, take away the pain so I could get enough sleep. As soon as I ended the prayer, I had a concentrated awareness that I was alone and my legs still hurt. A lot of good that did, I thought. A few seconds later a tingling sensation started all over both of my legs. It was not the pins and needles feeling you have when a limb is asleep, it was a pleasant feeling, like dazzling powder being sprinkled all over my legs.
I hadn’t yet rolled over onto my back after finishing my prayer when this feeling began. I realized after several seconds I was frozen and holding my breath with my hands still clasped tightly. It didn’t last very long, maybe twenty seconds and then all at once, it stopped. I stayed on my stomach, propped on my elbows and thought I must have been crazy, because it seemed like my legs didn’t hurt anymore. Not believing this was possible, I bent one leg upward, then the other and then both together. No pain. I climbed down my ladder and walked around the bedroom, then opened the door and paced some circles in the hallway. My legs felt fine.
For several years I attended Sunday school that was called CCD. I was assigned a seat in the front row where each week I was treated to an hour of craning my neck and swiveling my head from side to side as Mr. Nubley paced the front of the classroom while eating a Dum Dum lollipop. I remember him occasionally spitting on me as he spoke and recall once having my foot stepped on by the enormous man. He repeatedly taught us the Ten Commandments until I could recite them forward and backwards as I rode bikes or jumped rope with my friends. Aside from that, the teacher didn’t progress or have dialogue with any of the students.
As I neared the age where I would be making my Confirmation, one week Mr. Nubley informed us that if we wanted to see some great sex movies, to be sure to sign up for seventh grade CCD. I assume they were going to talk about human reproduction in that class. But I knew the way Mr. Nubley addressed us as children and students was not appropriate. When I arrived home, I pulled my father aside and told him what the teacher had said. My father pulled me out of this religious class and I didn’t make my Confirmation, after all.
