Growing Up Catholic

NOTE: The story is true, the people are real, the names have been changed .

Growing up Catholic doesn't necessarily guarantee that you are learning about Jesus.

I can't recall Jesus being a topic of discussion in my formative years.

I remember learning the rules and catechism... although no one ever told me these lessons were called catechism.

Priests were an integral part of my family's spiritual life, but I never had close contact with the religious orders until I entered Catholc school.

The time was 1968 and I was five years old when I met my first grade teacher, Sister Mary Joseph.

I thought she was so old!

And she had a man's name!

Sister ran a tight ship.

I have no recollections of anyone causing one lick of trouble in her class. I know in hindsight that I was in a class of thirty really tough kids.

Our time was always occupied.

If my work was finished early, a plastic container was plunked down onto my desk.

MODELING CLAY!

My favorite.

I never looked into Sister's face. I saw mostly her belly region, black voluminous robes.

She floated.

Her hands were thick and firm... no wasted movement.

But, there was this good feeling always with her. I finished my work, she noticed and gave me a reward of clay time.

It felt so good to have an adult who cared about you so much that even in a sea of children, she knew your needs and attended to you.

Nothing ruffled her.

Fran Smolinski was terrified of thunder and lightening as we were to learn that spring.

Sobbing hysterically as the lightening flashed before our wall of windows, Sister Mary Joseph kept us all calm like a captain sailing a ship across stormy seas and Fran's woe.

I remember how Sister kept calm and serene during prayers as one of our classmates, Timothy O'Connor, threw up.

And... of course, Fran had a sympathetic cookie toss immediately afterwards.

Sister smoothly managed to tend to both ill children, clean them up in our classroom bathroom, and move forward with the day while reassuring us all.

The only time that Sister gave me a startle was when she had moved my desk beside that big wall of windows. We were all soon to discover that I was a big-time daydreamer.

She kept repeatedly asking me to read a sight word to her from the Dick and Jane reader list. The words were on the chalkboard and my eyes were out the window flying like a birdy in the clear sky. I never once looked at the board.

The word was "play" and I kept saying "toy". Over and over and over.
We both were persistent. Finally I realized my mistake. Sister never scolded. She just looked perplexed. I liked that about her.

My desk was moved to the other side of the classroom. There was no reprimand, no yelling, no adult authority games.

Sister was firm, consistent, and attentive.

When I was frightened about getting onto the big bus at the end of the day, there was Sister Mary Joseph, standing by side and reassuring me that my big sister would be there for me soon.

And when Sis arrived, "See! There she is!"

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I ran into Sister Mary Joseph in the early 1990's at the retirement home for the sisters of her religious order.

I knew her in an instant.

I never realized before that she had sweet eyes.

She smiled at me as I told her that she had been my first grade teacher.

She rememberd me in an instant.

"Oh, you are the youngest of the six sisters! I remember you! So beautiful. How could I forget those eyes of yours?"

And I thanked her as chills ran up my spine.

How many... so many... children had she taught, yet she could remember me?

I felt loved.

I felt cherished.

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No we didn't talk a lot about Jesus while growing up Catholic, but once in awhile I had the honor to travel along with someone who knew Jesus quite well.