Like many of the twenty-five percent or so of the
American people who would respond with “Roman Catholic” when asked their
religion in an emergency room, I am a “cradle Catholic,” born into an
Irish-American family in Detroit as a baby boomer in 1952, baptized at St.
Gabriel’s on the southwest side in the same year. I first received the body,
blood, soul, and divinity of Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ in second grade
at St. Eugene’s parish in northwest Detroit, for which the Sisters of Notre
Dame DeNamur admirably prepared me. I still stand amazed at the reverence
instilled in the second-graders in the black-and-white photos shot by my
father, Don, that day. I was also confirmed at St. Eugene’s parish in the
fourth grade, after which my mother, Ann, took me out for my favorite
breakfast, strawberry pancakes, where I played “Fun, Fun, Fun” by the Beach
Boys at least twice. Since my return and faithful assent to all that the
Catholic Church teaches in 1995, (from which admittedly I was AWOL from
1965-95) I have been a daily communicant and regular penitent.
My first memory on this earth is as a baby, less than
a year old, of being driven by my parents to a funeral in Pennsylvania, an
event my mother corroborated years later. My next memory in my earthly existence
is one I shall always remember. It is one of observing from my pew prior to the
6:30 am Mass in 1958 the Sisters entering St. Eugene’s from the front-side
entrance of the Church, special to them for access from their one-room convent
in the adjoining school. It was winter, and the church was dimly-lit. They
entered with awe-inspiring reverence, processing in their full habits, the
beads of their waist-draped rosaries colliding gently, genuflecting and
kneeling in silent preparation for the soon to occur reenactment in a
non-bloody manner of Our Lord’s eternal sacrifice first offered on Calvary for
our salvation, the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass.
The latent aroma of incense and the sight of fresh beeswax candles flickering
on the altar, together with the sisters’ silent reverence and obvious practice
of what they taught their first graders - the importance of reverence in the
House of God - is an impression which not only convinced me that Jesus
lived there (in the Tabernacle), but was also an actual grace which I believe,
together with my baptismal grace and my Mom’s faith witness, was instrumental
in eventually leading me back into the fullness of Catholic teaching. I do not
know now what became of each Sister, but I am sure that whatever their relationship
with Our Lord today, they had no idea their first-grader Tim was so inspired by
the witness to the real Presence they gave that winter morn. To be continued....
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