Yes, I am glad--no, I should not fear. The little girl in me did, however, when I was eight years old:
My Fear, My Fear, My Maximum Fear
By Georgina Marrero
When I was eight, I was put into a Catechism class at Saints Peter and Paul Church. It was especially weird for me, since I had been baptized at age four, just so that Castro wouldn’t send me—an “unwashed child”—to Russia. All I remember was the Chinese priest, my mother peering out over her darkened bifocals, and the big party afterward.
So here I was, four years later, in a different country, getting ready to undergo—endure, perhaps? —The Second Sacrament. I knew by then that my parents weren’t terribly big on religion: I’d been baptized “just because,” and now, again, I’d be receiving my First Communion, “just because.”
At least this time I was the “right” age.
I think the priests were Jesuits.
The class was…ok. I was much more of a follower, then, always trying to fit in. The Catechism books were cute—I think they were in Spanish. We recited a lot.
Two things, however, were of paramount importance: the dress; and the confession of my sins before I took Holy Communion for the first time.
Already chubby, we managed to find me a dress. I still have it. It has a cute raised design on the front.
The confession, however, terrified me more than finding that dress. I still remember shaking before I approached the priest. What would I say?
I don’t remember, but I got through it.
The wafer, however: to swallow that wafer whole. Could I chew it, I wondered. Was it a mortal sin to chew it?
I think I swallowed it whole, thinking, worrying about it the whole time.
Once, and only once: for that was my fear, my fear, my maximum fear.
And I daresay it still is. (288 words)
Written at a Spiritual Autobiography Workshop, 10/16/05
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And here is what I wrote about 10/16/78 (when Pope John Paul II ascended to the Papacy):
News didn’t travel as fast then, but I’m sure we heard the news while we were at school that day: Habemus papam. We have a Pope: Karol Wojtyla.
A Polish Pope? I remember asking myself. Everyone was shocked—not just the Italians. I’m sure our little group at school discussed it.
Then I returned home to Cambridge and probably listened to the TV coverage. I may have been young – 24 at the time – but not that young that it didn’t sink in.
A Polish Pope. What would it mean?
I hadn’t really paid much attention to Popes, especially as a young child. After all, I was baptized at age four so that Castro wouldn’t send me to Russia, along with other “unwashed” children. My equally hybrid parents didn’t think of it, until then.
But they then rushed to include me as a little, yet significant, “aside” in the more “normal” baptism of my godparents’ recently arrived daughter.
And, when we arrived in the States, I duly went to Catechism and celebrated my First Communion when I was eight. I still remember being terrified before my first – and only – Confession.
I also remember that the Pope at the time was a rotund man named John XXIII. Hard to forget, for me: XXIII. 23. My number.
The date was May 12, 1963. The Pope passed away just under four weeks later, on June 3, 1963. I’d been born during Pius The Twelfth’s Papacy, but Pope John had been both my Baptism and First Communion Pope. So now, who?
I remember Paul VI as a slender, serious-looking, serious scholar of religion. As I sporadically attended Mass, especially when I was directed to while I attended summer camp, I also, only sporadically, paid attention to him. But whenever I did, I gave him my full respect.
When he passed away and John Paul I ascended to the Throne of St. Peter, I was about to begin my second year as bilingual tutor at the Fitch School. Thirty-three days later - September 28 - was a Thursday. We must have heard the news of the new Pope’s sudden demise while at school that day, too.
What was going on? I probably figured he had been infirm. Was the Vatican aware of his condition? I’m asking myself that, now, on the heels of learning about the conspiracy theories.
The school was abuzz. I’m sure I sat in on many a discussion between, especially, Mrs. O’Brien and Mrs. McMenimen.
But here we were. The Conclave of Cardinals had reconvened, and a Pole named Karol Wojtyla had been named the new Pontiff. I remember the coverage about how to pronounce—let alone, spell—his name. John Paul II soon became much easier to handle.
What would it mean? We quickly found out. The new Pope visited his homeland. Solidarity. Lech Walesa. President Reagan: “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall.” I visited my aunt and uncle in a free Romania.
I now paid attention, albeit at a respectful distance.
Pope John Paul II ascended to the Papacy when I had just turned twenty-four. Twenty-six plus years later, he’s gone. He will have been the Pope of my youth to early middle age.
Although I have never formally confessed, nor taken Communion, since my First Communion, there is a bond I have never been able to loosen. I remember only The Lord’s Prayer, so I have to mumble along whenever I attend Mass, mimicking others. And yet…
… I could not help not taking note of the date – October 16, 1978 – when Karol Wojtyla became Pope.
And I could not help remembering where – and with whom – I was. With some lovely Irish ladies who were probably providing this hybrid with nourishment I wasn’t even aware I was imbibing.
--From "October 16, 1978"
WOW!!! I didn't realize it til just now: October 16, 27 years apart? Well, I wrote the latter in April of 2005.
And here we are: March 13, 2013.
Pope Francis asked us to pray for him. There is no fear, now (though I continue to be a lapsed Catholic: an "Ecumenical," as CNN's Erin Burnett so gracefully phrased it). There is, however, hope.
God bless you, Your Holiness. Please pray for us.
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