Catholic in Paramus<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n (memoir excerpt)<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n by<\/strong><\/p>\n Timothy Herrick<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0Copyright 1999, held by author<\/p>\n Sister Henora\u00a0 blew her nose several times a day. After the nasal expectoration, she\u00a0 studied the handkerchief, which she kept in the billowy sleeve\u00a0 of her habit. She would snort out snot into the white cloth, then just stare at it for what seemed like several minutes. I kept wondering if she was having a vision, like those three kids at Fatima. Maybe the Virgin Mary was in the mucus, revealing wisdom to this bride of Christ.<\/p>\n Sister Henora was a physical manifestation of God\u2019s ultimate power. She stood six feet tall and weighed nearly three hundred pounds. She was huge, one of the biggest human beings I\u2019ve ever seen in my life. She wore the drab blue habit of the Sisters of Charity, a formless dress that came down to the ankles, a white rope around the waist and a veil. She was the last of the conservative nuns, taking the hard-line with discipline and the Catholic world view and she taught Seventh Grade, the year after confirmation, the year before eighth grade, when High School and the promises of teen age rebellion filled our narrow horizons.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Seventh grade was the last year of the dark ages. Eighth grade meant more privileges. Eighth graders were the role models. As altar boys, they had their pick of\u00a0 masses, serving the prominent Midnight Masses of Easter and Christmas, and nearly all the Weddings and funerals, both of which included tips. Eighth graders served as hall monitors and bus monitors, which meant they wore special sashes and could boss all the other\u00a0 students around. Eighth grade also meant Sister Agnes, known throughout the school as Battle Ax, the strictest nun in the school. Her mission was to make sure the school\u2019s role-model serfs behaved.\u00a0 She smacked kids around with rulers, humiliated them by washing out their mouths with soap for saying curse words, or having them stand in the corner with their backs to the class for even minor infractions like whispering or passing notes. If a boy\u2019s hair was too long, meaning that it came over the shirt collar or fully covered the ears or if the bangs came over the eyes, the parents were notified. Hair was a big thing back then, a rebellious act. We all wanted to be like the radicals and rock stars on the news and so all the boys would push their hair behind their ears so it would look shorter at inspection time. Sister Agnes would pull the hair out from its combed positions until your face turned red from the pain. The girls had it worse. Skirts had to be no less than an inch above the knee. They could wear no make up. Sister Agnes had the girls stand in front of the class, and measured the distance between the hem of the skirt and their kneecap. You could see the girls squirming in\u00a0 their seats, trying to roll down the skirt before the inspection. If someone was wearing make up, Sister Agnes would call her Pocahontas, and rub the rouge, eyeliner and lipstick off with steel wool.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 In Seventh grade, our rebellious impulses were still in embryonic stages. By eighth grade, they would explode.\u00a0 Sister Henora wasn\u2019t as physically cruel as Sister Agnes, she inflicted more psychological punishments. She gave us an underpinning of guilt, fed our latent outrage. Our behavior wasn\u2019t the problem. She wanted to gain control of our hearts and minds.<\/p>\n Sister Henora made us understand that Satan had an interest in every aspect of our lives. People were manipulated by Satan because the devil never worked alone. Her explanation resembled what parents used to say about Santa Claus when we asked how Santa Claus was able to be in all the malls and stores before Christmas to listen to every kid\u2019s Christmas list. \u201cSanta\u2019s busy so he sends his elves, dressed as Santa to work the malls, and they bring the lists to the North Pole.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 According to Sister Henora, Satan implemented a similar work policy. There are little devils that we have to resist. These sinister minions constantly prodded us to give into our weaker, baser urges. \u201cWhen you feel like going to sleep without saying your prayers, or you say your prayers while lying your in your in your bed instead of kneeling by the side of the bed, those are little devils making you do that, making you act less than your best,\u201d Sister Henora told us.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Lent was Sister Henora\u2019s favorite season. Self-sacrifice should be more gratifying than getting the present you wanted at Christmas, or even a charitable act. \u201cDuring Lent, these little devils work even harder to tempt you, because they know that you are giving up something for God. If you give up eating cake for Lent, every time you see a piece of cake, the devil is the one at your side, saying that one piece\u00a0 of cake doesn\u2019t matter, to eat the cake. The devil gets your mouth to water, heightens your desire for something sweet. And when you eat the cake, God sees you, he knows you broke your vow.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Cake was only an issue during lent. All year long,\u00a0 devils made us talk back to our parents, say dirty words, or do things that are bad for us, like smoke cigarettes or drink alcohol.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cThe reason children don\u2019t do these things is because your bodies are young, and they will stunt your growth. Do you think Satan wants you to have good health? Satan hates everything that his good. His minions act accordingly. His minions will get you to smoke cigarettes before you are old enough.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Terry Loftus raised his hand. He was a straight A-student, who would get top honors in\u00a0 science at Rutgers University and go on to be a robotics engineer. Cigarettes were big news stories back then. Television advertising was being banned, warning labels had to be attached to packs. People could no longer deny that cigarettes were unhealthy for everybody. They were\u00a0 known carcinogens.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cBut Sister,\u201d said Terry. \u201cAre the little devils telling parents to smoke, because cigarettes can cause cancer in an old body too.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cAdults know what they are doing, and they can\u00a0 smoke. Children can\u2019t.\u201d Sister Henora was adamant. Adults could not be questioned. Terry\u2019s father\u00a0 had to have a lung removed, and became a fervent anti-smoker. Terry sank back in the chair, frustrated and frowning. He had worked something out logically, but Sister Henora squelched his innate propensity for reason. Terry got married when\u00a0 he was twenty seven, and\u00a0 at his bachelor party he told me,\u00a0 \u201cthere ain\u2019t no way I\u2019m having a priest there, Tim. A civil ceremony. My wife feels the same way. It\u2019s bullshit.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 *****<\/p>\n Going to Catholic School means that you get a biased view of world history. In\u00a0 the early grades, you learn the bible stories of the old and new testaments. But Jesus Christ was more than just the Messiah the world\u00a0 waited for since Adam and Eve. His life, and the Catholic church his followers spawned, was the turning point of all history, the salivation for this world as well as the next.<\/p>\n European History was taught to us in Seventh Grade. Historical events like the Crusades or the Spain\u2019s Conquering of South America were examples of Catholicism fulfilling God\u2019s Will. Sister Henora emphasized that the Spanish Inquisition helped clear out the enemies of the church. Because of my last name, I immediately was made fun of. Timothy Heretic. I kind of liked the moniker. I kind of liked the heretics. I wanted to be a radical. People like Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin seemed to be in the news a lot when I was a kid. They were a lot more fun than people like Richard Nixon, and besides, who would want to get that old.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Sister Henora explored an important question of salvation for those poor souls who were not members of the One True Faith, The Catholic Church. \u201cThe people who were Jewish, and followed Judaism even though they heard the word of the Apostles, or the people the who followed Martin Luther away from the teachings of the One True Faith, the Catholic Church, they were very wrong and will go to hell. There is no salvation outside the sacraments. But God takes pity on the descendants of those people, they\u2019ll just go to Purgatory.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I raised my hand, \u201cMy father\u2019s Protestant, sister.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Some classmates gasped, some chortled. It was a mix of the shock that somebody actually didn\u2019t have a concrete Catholic ethnicity\u2014Italian, Irish or Polish\u2014and the fact that my father was Protestant, yet I wasn\u2019t in public school. Sister Henora cleared her throat, blew her nose, glanced at the fresh contents in the handkerchief in her hands, then replied. \u201cNo one can know God\u2019s will.\u00a0 Those born into non-Catholic faiths, they really had no choice, and God will take that into account.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 As usual, her answer didn\u2019t satisfy. I was worried about my father\u2019s soul trapped in Purgatory. I\u00a0 asked my father why he didn\u2019t convert to Catholicism. My father\u2019s favorite past time was Scout Master of OLV\u2019s troop 138, and he remained one long after I, the youngest son, dropped out of scouting.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t believe in the Pope,\u201d\u00a0 he said.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cThe succession of Peter, Dad?\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI just don\u2019t believe the Pope has that much power. I don\u2019t believe he\u2019s infallible.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cBut papal succession is in the New Testament, Dad.\u201d I replied, nervously. My father had a way of just blowing up. His temper flared often, with little or no provocation. But he seemed genuinely concerned with my confusion about his religion. People who went to Purgatory eventually went to Heaven, but it took a long time and the environment was nearly as bad as perdition. \u201cJesus said to Peter, upon this rock I will build my church.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI know what he said, but I don\u2019t believe that Jesus meant each pope would be the same as Peter. I think he meant Peter was to be the leader of the Apostles after he died,\u201d he said. \u201cI also don\u2019t believe in the Eucharist.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 This was even more shocking. \u201cThe Eucharist?\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI believe it\u2019s a symbol, not the body and blood of Jesus Christ.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou don\u2019t believe in the transubstantiation.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI guess I don\u2019t. I know your mother does, and we agreed to raise you kids Catholic. There are a lot of good points to the Religion, Timothy. Don\u2019t get me wrong. I just don\u2019t believe it, myself. In America we have freedom of religion. We all have our own beliefs, and we all try to lead good, moral lives.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou don\u2019t believe in the transubstantiation? You don\u2019t believe that at Mass, the Priest makes a miracle, transforming the bread into the body of Christ?\u201d<\/p>\n At the time, I still wanted to be a priest. I thought the whole world revolved around these supposed facts. By the end of seventh grade, desire vanquished all priestly aspirations. I had learned about sex, playboy, masturbation, and even kissed Lisa Greenfield at a party. I had learned about Celibacy, and all that implied, and being a Priest no longer was part of the plan. The need to loose my virginity was. Of course, sex and sexuality are painful issues for Catholics,\u00a0 and as I lost my priesthood aspirations, I also questioned my faith. The two seemed so connected in my youth. But just as I have never fully lost the feeling that sex is dirty\u2014that\u2019s what makes it so intense\u2014I have never been able to shake the belief that the Transubstantiation was absolute truth. Miracles do happen, and happen because of Jesus Christ. I can deny it all I want, use reason and experience to dispute it, but on my deathbed, call a Priest. Why take any chances? It has nothing to do with what is right or wrong, or even likely\u2014it has everything to do with your childhood, and you either make peace with it, or you don\u2019t.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 And, in the end, it didn\u2019t even matter what my father believed. When he died, he had a Catholic send off\u2014a full blown funeral mass, attended by all the boy scouts, young and old, he had fathered by proxy during thirty plus years of scouting. The priest burned incense in the sensor, anointed the coffin with holy water tossed out of the aspergillum, gave out\u00a0 communion. Dad, they buried him in his boy scout uniform, rosary beads wrapped around his hands. The uniform, because that\u2019s what he requested. He loved America\u2019s leading paramilitary youth organization. My mother insisted on the mass and the beads. She wasn\u2019t about to take any chances with his soul staying in Purgatory any longer than necessary.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 *****<\/p>\n In boy scouts, I learned how to tie knots, set up tents, swim. It was the also the place I first smoked cigarettes, pot, drank beer and\u00a0 hard liquor, and learned how to masturbate. Not that it takes any real technique, it\u2019s such a simple function. But it\u2019s not obvious. I suppose someone, somewhere first realized that if you stroke your penis it can result in pleasure, relief, jism\u2014and who ever that was, taught another adolescent, and he taught another, and so on, down the line. Something to do when you\u2019re not allowed to hunt.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Jimmy Christie was the instigator; he showed us how to do it one night in a tent. Some guys drive better than others, some swim while others flounder, and some can hit the ball out of the park and others only strike out or walk, but every guy is good at masturbating. I suppose homosexual and bisexual guys do it in front of each other well into their teen years and beyond, but after learning the simple movements of your hands, heterosexual males soon keep it a solitary endeavor. Nonetheless, to this day, the smell\u00a0 of canvass and wood fires brings back tactile memories\u00a0 of early release.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I can remember my next\u00a0 door neighbor, Christine Manna, a blonde, blue-eye princess, showing me her vagina when we were kids, like seven years old or something. I showed her my penis. I remember a small brown dot, a birth mark, near her vaginal\u00a0 lips, and how it was similar in size and shape to\u00a0 the one on her cheek, just below her eye. Then, later, maybe a year, maybe a few months, for some reason she got mad at me and pulled my hair so hard I cried. In retrospect, this action seems like some kind of response to our show and tell session, but it seemed truly harsh since pulling down our underwear in that backyard tree fort was her idea. There were no boys in her family. She was very curious.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 It\u2019s funny, how when you\u2019re a young kid, before all the pubic hair and hormonal eruptions, it\u2019s just innocent fun, seeing the difference between boys and girls. Then that\u00a0 show-and-tell stuff ends. The hair grows, the sexual imperatives start issuing\u00a0 priorities. Innocent curiosity is replaced by fear. Then it\u2019s more than curiosity. Suddenly it\u2019s the world.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 My parents never discussed sex with me. After Jimmy showed me the secret trick, somebody else in the troop explained the what fors\u2014that you\u2019re supposed to do that with a girl\u2014the\u00a0 kiss on the lips, then the tongue kiss, then the feeling up of breasts, then the fingering, and\u00a0 then, of course, the final insertion. I was confused. I finally had to ask my father, and he walked me into his bedroom and shut the door. He then explained, in quiet tones, how the egg is fertilized, and how it\u2019s an expression of love. Love I think I knew about. I\u00a0 was writing poems to Lisa Greenfield. Connecting sex, which seemed like such a vile, exhilarating endeavor, with love, took more maturity than I had at the time. I figured that my mother was like Mary\u2014she had kids by Virgin birth. The nuns were never clear on the Virgin part\u00a0 of the Virgin Mary, how she was the only one to make a success of\u00a0 Immaculate Conception. My mother had six kids, and after the talk with my father, I realized that not one was a virgin birth. They were all conceived by that exciting, yet frightening and banal coupling.<\/p>\n It seems one day, you\u2019re just a happy boy thinking only about comic books and Star Trek and playing touch football, and then, you notice hair sprouting on your genitals, which was okay, because no one else saw it. Then, just as suddenly, maybe you wake up with sheets wet and images remembered from the naked neoclassical statues of women you saw on the class trip to the Metropolitan\u00a0 Museum of Art lingering from the dream. Around the same time, the erections start. Your cock hardens with no provocation. I can\u2019t remember when I was first told of the word boner. For a long time, they could not be controlled. I can remember being called on by Mrs. Mckellcany, a semi-senile Sixth grade math teacher, just as a rod popped up behind the zipper of my green uniform slacks. I waddled up to the blackboard, nonchalantly crossing my hands in front of myself, as if I walked liked that all the time. I kept my back to the class as I scrawled the numbers with the chalk, then trotted\u00a0 back to my seat when the equation was completed, hoping no one would notice the persistent bulge.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 By seventh grade, we knew why got erections. At night before sleeping, we knew how to deal with them.<\/p>\n Sister Henora never addressed the issue of masturbation. But she scared us indirectly, with the story of John. She only told the boys this parable. I don\u2019t know where\u00a0 the girls went, but they came\u00a0 back all giggly and with pamphlets they weren\u2019t allowed to show the boys. I think they learned about their\u00a0 periods. Boys didn\u2019t get periods. We just got hard-ons without cause, sheet soiling, dream-motivated discharges, and the rite\u00a0 of passage of masturbation. Of course, masturbation may not have made you less of man, but it wasn\u2019t the same level of maturation as menstruation. We still had to\u00a0 prove\u00a0 our manhoods, and the stigma of our virginity would plague us for years and years.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 So,\u00a0 here we were, fed up with school, listening to rock and roll, knowledgeable enough about sex to enjoy dirty magazines like Playboy and Penthouse. Sister Henora knew all this. She was going to set us straight.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI want to tell you the story of a boy, he used to be one of my students. I won\u2019t use his real name. Let\u2019s call him John.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 We looked around at each other. Was John one of\u00a0 us?<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cHe\u2019s not in this class,\u201d she said, although we could not be sure if this was true. Sister Henora stood at the front of the class-room, leaning her large frame on the podium. \u201cEverybody thought well\u00a0 of John, all the parents and the teachers and priests. He was an altar\u00a0 boy,\u00a0 and never missed a mass.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 So far, he sounded familiar. I was an altar boy, and my mother would\u00a0 have killed me if I missed a mass. I even got an award at graduation for serving the most masses. Most of the boys in the class aided the priest in the holy sacrifice.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cBut he had a club house, a fort in the woods, where\u00a0 he hung out with his friends. And they would smoke cigarettes, drink beer they stole from their parent\u2019s house, and they would play cards and read magazines, those dirty, sinful magazines like the one I found in Jimmy Christie\u2019s desk last week.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Jimmy bent his red face low. His mother had to be called from home for that incident. When Sister Henora found the magazine, which had already made the rounds of all the boys, she hit his hands with the\u00a0 ruler, then as he started crying,\u00a0 dragged him by the ear out into the hall and up the stairs, to the principal, Sister Eileen Cecelia.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cThey would do other things that are mortal sins, to themselves, and they thought it was all a big joke.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Our silence revealed our guilt. Nearly every boy was a member of Troop 138.\u00a0 We knew exactly what those \u201cother things\u201d meant.\u00a0<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Sister Henora made her final point. It wasn\u2019t just the sin of Onan, or adult activities like smoking and drinking that were punishable by eternal damnation. \u201cJohn never confessed his sins. He would serve\u00a0 mass on the altar, receive communion like he had done nothing wrong. He thought he could get away with something.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 And, as students of Our Lady of the Visitation, that was the one ultimate and absolute truth we learned. You could not get away with anything. Try as you might, lie as you best you can, you will be caught, you will be punished, and it will go on one your permanent record. But John didn\u2019t need a permanent record to damn his future.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cThen one day, John died,\u201d Sister Henora said. \u201cHe was hit by the car. It\u2019s was God\u2019s will that he died so young. So, his two friends were going to say mass with the priest. And I knew the priest boys, and he\u2019s the one who told\u00a0 me this story. See, the priest was getting ready in the sacristy, and as he was going out of the sacristy onto the altar to begin mass, he couldn\u2019t pass through the doorway. Something stopped him.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Sister Henora mimed the act of trying to take a step. It reminded me of on Star Trek, when a force field appears and Captain Kirk becomes trapped. She kind of marched in place, restrained from moving forward.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cThen the priest heard something in the back of his mind. A little voice, \u2018Father, I\u2019m in Hell.\u2019 The priest thought that maybe the death of someone so young had troubled and confused him more than he realized. So he tried to get through the sacristy door one more time.\u201d She did her mime act again, bobbing and lurching, unable to pass through the imaginary doorway. We tittered apprehensively. Her voice became dry and low. \u201cBut he could not get on to the altar, then he heard the voice again, \u2018Father, I\u2019m in Hell.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Our mouths were agape. Did this happen at OLV? Did people know about this, words from beyond the grave. We were shocked. We were all as guilty as John.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Sister\u00a0 Henora\u2019s voice became very\u00a0 low, very serious. \u201cThe priest had to walk the long way around to the Altar Boy\u2019s changing room, where John\u2019s two friends were putting on their cossacks. He sat them down, and said, \u2018tell me about John.\u2019 Oh, it took a while and some coaxing, but they soon came forth with the facts, of what they did in the club house, and that John wouldn\u2019t confess these things, and that he served mass and received communion with\u00a0 these blemishes on his soul. The priest had to call off the funeral. And John, he will suffer for all eternity because of his impurity.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Then Sister Henora grabbed the handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose. She stared at something only she could see, then said. \u201cSo, if you do those sort\u00a0 of things, or know somebody who does, just remember, what happened to\u00a0 John.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I still wonder if Sister Henora was just acting to teach us the lesson, or if she honestly believed in this particular X-File. I was too shy or scared to mention masturbation to\u00a0 the priest during confession, but I always murmured a sincere Act of Contrition before receiving communion. I didn\u2019t want to go to Hell.<\/p>\n