(Last night I asked Connor, age ten to say grace before dinner. One of the six of us always says grace before dinner. It's usually something like, "Dear God, Thank you for this food. Thank you for ultimate frisbee today. Thank you for the walk in the woods and our friends. Thank you for my not having homework tonight." In other words, relaxed, personalized, low-key. During the pandemic, we add a sentence about those suffering from covid and their families; after the death of George Floyd, we add a sentence about those suffering because of racial injustice. Connor shakes his head no. He hasn't said grace in a while. Amidst the hubbub in getting everyone to the table and hollering at the setters for forgetting napkins and forks, I don't pay attention to who said grace last and who needs a turn. But I'm realizing now that Connor hasn't said grace in a long time, has bowed out even when asked directly. We give him some prompts, "You can just say, Dear God, Thank you for this food...or thank you for the sun today." Connor shook his head no. I remember Connor's telling me recently that he doesn't believe in God; that he thinks that people just make God up to have something to believe in. I tell him, "You can say thank you without saying dear God." He considers this, but then decides no. Another kid picks up grace. We return to the God talk. We talk about the Greeks and Romans -- I teach Latin -- and how their religion seems so made-up, mythical to us. Connor says, "Yeah, that's how they are going to talk about us, too. I don't believe in God. People just decide to believe in God."
I went to Catholic school from kindergarten through twelfth grade. When my mom suggested Catholic colleges, I applied to two, but went to neither. It wasn't that I was rejecting Catholicism. It was more that I wanted a broader view of the world, of life. I tell the kids, "I went to Catholic school K-12. It never crossed my mind at your age to consider that there might not be a god. That God wasn't real. The only reality I knew was that God was." I didn't question whether God existed until I was in my twenties.)
At confession, I keep up the script:
These are my sins:
I stole (my sister's socks, my mom's oatmeal chocolate chip cookies in the freezer).
I lied (about taking the socks and about pushing Christine's clothes to the other side of the closet).
I fought with my brothers and sisters.
I disobeyed (by not doing what my parents asked or by fighting with my brothers and sisters).
I'm not sure the fifth, but there was always a fifth. After I'd said my Act of Contrition (Oh my God I am sorry for my sins please forgive me i know you love me i want to love you and to be good to everyone. help me to make up for my sins I will try to do better from now on. Amen.), I thought, "Okay, so I had five sins to confess today. Next time I can make it four. Then three the next time. Then two. Then one. And then what will I have left to say when I have to go to Confession and I have no more sins left to confess?"
Not kidding.
Catholic. Dutiful. Goal-oriented. Sin-improving. Guilt high.
When I did well in school and captained sports and was president of my class senior year of high school, my mom worried for me. She said to me more than once, "You're lucky the kids like you."
And I thought, "But why shouldn't they like me? I'm fine. I'm not mean. I'm nice."
As a mom now, I understand that she was looking out for me, reminding me to be humble and appreciative because really, kids are tough (actually, adults are, too, I've learned), and jealousy rears high and can bring out meanness, and she didn't want me to get hurt.
As a kid, I was frustrated that she kept telling me how lucky I was that the other kids liked me. There was no reason that they shouldn't like me: I was just a kid who did well in school and with sports. I wasn't mean. Why shouldn't they like me?
In ancient Rome, when a general or emperor came back triumphant from a big conquering, they would hold a Triumph in Rome. Julius Caesar got to have four (Gaul, Spain, Africa, Asia). There were senators and prisoners of war and animals and mimes. The general was on a chariot, and behind him (always a him, of course) was a slave who repeated through the entire parade, "Remember that you are only a mortal."
Humility. Always humility.
Always more to work on.
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