I have been a Catholic all my life. I was baptized as an infant, went to Catholic grammar school as a child, raised in a devout Catholic family of seven children, and attended Catholic High School, all in Southern California. Most evenings, all of us children would say the Rosary with our parents, kneeling in front of a statue of Mary the Mother of Jesus and a lighted candle. We studied the Baltimore Catechism to learn the dos and don’ts of our faith, went to Mass as a family on Sundays, went to confession once a month, saved our nickels to put into the Pagan Baby boxes that lined the classroom shelves, and tried not to commit any mortal sin.
The rest of our lives were knitted together with all of the above. The four of us boys played baseball and kickball in the street, made scooters out of wooden boxes and zoomed around the neighborhood. My little brother would often sit squished up in the box with arms folded over his knees like a pretzel while the scooter raced around the neighbor sidewalks. I can’t remember what our sisters did while us boys were busy playing, but they seemed to do all those things girls do. In the early evening, Mom would come out on the porch and announce that dinner was ready. We all came in, washed up and sat down to eat.
At times, mostly us boys, would be a little mischievous and get into trouble. Being young, we seemed to have more energy than Mister Clean on steroids, trampling through front and back yards destroying anything (accidently) in our paths. When word got to our parents and we were questioned about our mischief, we often lied about our whereabouts, hoping not to get caught and punished. However, when the monthly time for confession was upon us, we struggled to recall those times, and remember how often, and dutifully confess these and other matters that needed to be made known. Confession was not easy, but to neglect making something known that needed to be told, was not an option for us. By being honest, God would forgive us and we would leave the confessional in the peace that only a child can experience.
There was one time that I do recall. I was in the 2nd grade and a group of us boys were in line for confession. I had made a good examination of conscience and was quietly standing in line when all of a sudden, from inside the confessional, Fr. Regan called out loudly, “YOU DID WHAT?” I was stunned. I nervously quickly re-examined my sins, how many times, and anxiously awaited my turn. I had been deeply shaken. I continued to go to confession as often as I was taught to go, then a little less often as I got older. That memory stayed with me, buried inside and I am sure had a subconscious effect on me. It was only much later when I had gathered with some priests at a dinner that I told the story openly. After hearing the story, a good friend, Fr. Roy, said with a smile to all sitting at the table, “I imagine the little guy, trying not to miss any possible sins, went through the Commandments one by one. When he got to the Sixth Commandment and confessed, ‘I committed adultery three times’ the priest hearing him was probably so surprised that he shot back with his response.” I cannot express the sense of humor and inner peace I felt at Fr. Roy’s words.