Saturday's Child

Reginald & Maryalice

The threat of sin was a somber cloud darkening my childhood horizon. Each evening as I lay in bed, I'd review my day, fearful of both the omnipresent threat of damnation due to youthful transgressions and anxious to keep the tally sheet current. I'd scurry from under the covers and slide to my knees, convinced this penitent posture was the first step on the road to salvation.

You see, I was a Roman Catholic, born mid-Twentieth Century, living a virtuous life under the watchful eyes of popes and saints, nuns and priests, and judgmental parishioners. Notice that God doesn't even make the list here. Oh, I had been told he could ultimately zap me straight to hell, even for things I only allowed my mind to dabble with, but somehow there was a more tangible threat to my knuckles being rapped by over-zealous, habit-wearing disciplinarians or of being sentenced to lengthy penance at the altar rail in front of other equally sinful seven-year-olds.

Still, my mother made sure every Saturday we were scrubbed up and hauled off to confession. There would come that moment in the afternoon activities when Mom would sound the alarm and my brother and I would pile into the car for the two mile round trip. The drive was filled with a panicked flurry of self-questions: What had I done? How many times had I done it? Is this what the priest or God wanted to hear? I dug and dug, searching out sins that qualified. I had talked back two times; yelled at my brother three times; teased the neighbor boy once. I might even have picked up one of my father's not-so hidden girly magazines (only looked at the cover in horror - honest!), although at that age, I was at a loss as to how to categorize said curiosity and there was no way you could convince me that a celibate priest knew of such things. This sin of seeing would not be spoken.

I suffered ongoing confusion that my non-Catholic, non-practicing Lutheran father never seemed to worry about such things as sin and confession, seeing what literature he stored next to his recliner. Actually, godliness as defined by Dad was quite appealing about four o'clock each Saturday but my mother never entertained the question as to why Dad didn't have to go.He just didn't and that was that. We went; he stayed.

As the car rounded the bend to the church, my take on the sacrament of penance and all sacrilegious thoughts associated with it were probably the most sinful things in my young life. I was relieved, however, to know they were hardly crimes of passion for a young girl that warranted wait time in the infamous halls of purgatory.

Our salmon and white Bel Air slid easily into the curbside parking place, its pitted chrome fins flashing in the sun. As rare as front row parking spaces were for any Sunday mass, they were abundant on summer Saturdays. What did that say about the obligatory nature of the two activities, even though it was believed one must confess before one could commune? Mom grumbled weekly about those Christians who would routinely wing into church ten minutes before Mass and expect the priest to abandon all his preparations in favor of retiring with them to the confessional box for last minute absolution.There was a righteous indignation in her willingness to sacrifice the good times for her Lord and her children, although it rarely interrupted anything in her life as special as defeating armies in sandbox skirmishes or planning endless transcontinental treks through neighboring residential woods in search of big game. Still, she met her commitment head on and made sure we were where we needed to be to qualify for being brought up right.

The old stone church had a peculiar odor, one I could have identified blindfolded. If the church as still standing today, I probably still could. As I slid in out of the sunlight, the heavy oak door slammed shut behind me like a prison gate. I was met by that familiar earthen scent, mingled with undertones of high Mass incense and sweet Sunday florals. I drew in deeply, hoping to inhale the Holy Spirit right then and there, thus simplifying the process for everyone concerned. After all, I
knew God was a busy man, but in reality, it was because I knew my Saturday freedom wouldn't resume until I had done what was expected of me. With that thought, I genuflected and slumped onto the pew kneeler nearest the sixth station of the cross. Here I had a clear view of the confessional and could watch for when the line shortened up and keep tabs on how long certain sinners took to expiate their sins. Occasionally, the whispers were loud enough I could catch a sin here or there, but I tried not to since I was certain that would then need to be on my list. This confessing thing was complicated.

We were usually "on hold" as the Rapp family - numbering ten children, two parents, and "another one in the pot" as my mother was quick to point out - filed out of pews and formed two lines in

descending chronological order. To occupy my time I squinted at the stained glass panels and silently named the saints and scenes for the umpteenth time. The deep muted tones created by the sunlight coming through cast eerie shadows on the already dark church interior. The ambience caused me to reflect one more time on the litany of misdeeds I intended to recite once I closed the confessional door and pushed the musty velvet curtain aside to reveal the priest. I found things moved faster if I practiced what I was going to say since Father Conran never found it necessary to ask revealing questions about my sins. In fact, my friends and I had concluded about the time we achieved first communion status, if we capped off our recitations with "I lied" and conveniently left off any indication of how often, we were covered for any memory lapses and left the confessional with a clean slate.

Today I was looking for the usual penance: five Our Fathers, five Hail Marys, and three Glory Bes. Three minutes of Christian reflection at the front altar rail coupled with a haphazard sign of the cross and an appropriately repentant facial expression, and I'd be out into the sunlight again by the sanctuary exit before my brother could cross himself twice with holy water. If Mom was in a good mood, she would be cajoled into a stop at the local delicatessen for an authentic Italian water ice. It surely wouldn't spoil our appetite for whatever she had simmering in the stockpot at home.

My relief was always tangible after our Saturday trip to church. Although I have never decided whether that feeling came from the actual forgiveness I was promised or my joy at it being over for another week, my childhood cynicism eventually gave way to a more mature awe inspired by this simple ritual and has remained long after both my impatience and youth have faded.

Epilogue

I reflect upon what I have done in my life and what I still might do, and an inner peace fills my thoughts and pulls me back. I see the old darkened church with red vinyl kneelers and hear the muffled amens of the penitents who have set time aside to get their lives in order. I can see that little girl who trusted the rituals even though the mysteries escaped her because she trusted those who taught her. Not such a bad idea this thing called trust.

"Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Amen."