Part 2: Religion & Me

When I was five, my mother invited a nun into our home for “the talk.” I don’t know where she got the idea from. I was an active child and all I wanted was to be climbing our one tree or bouncing on the sofa. Alas, my mother made me sit and listen to this woman she introduced as Nun Something.

I wasn’t thrilled. Her long gray dress, strange white cape, and the way she stood with her hands clasped over her stomach didn’t help. My mother stood by the doorway, watching nervously. I wondered why she did not sit near me on the brown fake leather sofa. The nun told odd tales, she spoke too much, I did not pay much attention until she concluded with, “And remember, He’s always watching; God is everywhere.” Now that piqued my interest. Frowning, I looked at my mother, who nodded enthusiastically to confirm. 

If He was everywhere and saw me now, then I wanted to see Him too. I got up without a word, and looked around the room, out the window, even at the ceiling. What did He look like? I asked the nun where He was hiding. She laughed—but not kindly—and I grew more curious… and suspicious.

Until I saw Him, I couldn’t buy into her story. The nun began to lose patience. Turning to my mother, she said I was too young and too spirited. She predicted I’d be a handful. My mother said nothing, her head lowered as if she had been scolded. Then she left. I was happy to see the nun go. She never returned and my mother never mentioned her or God again.

Until I was nine.

She gave it another shot. We’d moved to a larger town, and every kid went to religious class on Wednesdays—our free day. These classes prepared children for First Communion, when they’d receive the host, the symbolic body and blood of Jesus.

My mother told me everyone in my class was going. That meant all my friends and I should too. I was a docile child—so much for Nun Something’s prophecy. I wanted a peaceful home, and if it made my mother happy, I’d do it.

So every Wednesday, 9am I went. We colored pictures of Jesus holding a fish or standing on a rocky hill with some trees, we read stories, or listened to the adult in charge.

Looking at one of our drawings, we were told that those were Olive trees. And that place is Israel.

I kept on crayoning them green and wondered where Israel was, and how Jesus was relevant to me.

I was perplexed by the whole story. I was not sure I understood it, but I did not want to ask. I was too shy. I heard that Jesus was the son of God— that same God, who sees us all the time. His mother was Mary and she was a virgin, (a word I didn’t understand), married to a carpenter named Joseph. But Joseph was not Jesus’s father. I was curious to know how they knew that. Christ was a title, not a surname. It reminded me of my cousin named Christian. Jesus was born in a stable. That did not sound that exotic to me; my uncle had one where we played hide and seek among the cows. Even if the straw could be itchy,  with a blanket it was a very cosy place to be. Then came the cherry on the cake, the  Holy Ghost—called the Holy Spirit in French. Less spooky, still unclear.

The Bible stories were entertaining, especially the ones about the miracles—or was it just a magic trick? I followed my classmates like a sheep in the Jesus herd during this laid-back hour with no homework. Not one of us asked questions. Most of us were just counting the days until our first religious celebration.

Months passed, spring arrived and we went to visit a church in preparation for the big day. We tried a non-holy host: a bland, sticky wafer that clung to the roof of my mouth. I remember thinking, Why not use actual bread? Didn’t Jesus bless a loaf? Of course, I didn’t ask. I was glad we didn’t have to drink wine. I didn’t like wine—still don’t—and the bread-body/wine-blood imagery horrified me.

Finally, we were deemed ready. It was mid-May, the happy month of weddings, communions, and family gatherings. We marched into church, heads high, in our best new clothes. A double big day for my mother—not only did I have to leave my comfy, beloved dungarees behind and wear a dress, but I was also officially becoming one of “them.” Second tasting and the same result: the host was still sticky, so I tried to keep it on my tongue to avoid the roof of my mouth. As I walked back to my seat, watched by the entire crowd, I probably looked like a monster, my jaw seemingly deformed until it disintegrated, melted, or whatever it did.

Once we got home, the fun started before the long lunch. I was showered with incredible gifts: my very first camera—not the Polaroid I used to borrow, but one of my own, where I could take twelve photos and use a flash. A portable turntable. And because I’d asked for travel gear (I just knew I’d travel someday), I received a bag labeled “Travel,” made of thin blue material that I immediately judged too small—and, most memorably, a barber toiletry kit. I looked at it incredulously, wondering what the thick short brush was for, which had all my cousins laughing. I still wonder why those nice people—our childhood neighbors—got me this. They knew me. Maybe I looked way more tomboy than I thought!

I also received The Illustrated Bible for Boys and Girls and a small framed portrait of some white-wigged woman I was told was Marie Antoinette. After the barber kit, my cousins’ laughter reignited. I wasn’t into art, and it didn’t feel like a present for a child. I had no idea what to do with it, so I regifted it immediately to my mother, all while listening to my cousins’ jokes. I must admit, I laughed and tried to hide my giggles in case the gifters were watching.

That should have been the end of my religious experience. My mother and I had a deal: one communion. Basta.

But no.

The following year, my mother tried to sweet-talk me into continuing for the second Communion.

“Don’t you want to wear the alb? It’s so special. You’d look beautiful—we could go to the hairdresser! And you get to go on a retreat with your friends!”

“No. Thank you.”

There was no chance I’d commit to more years of religious classes. Not even bigger gifts could tempt me. The alb did nothing for me; I didn’t want to look like a nun in white. I was the only one among my friends who didn’t continue, but I don’t recall anyone commenting—and frankly, I didn’t care.

That was the end of religion in my life. Or so I thought.

Until I was 22. In Israel.

By then, at least, I knew where Israel was, and I knew God and I were not in any kind of relationship.

Expectation vs. Reality: The "Pull tube" edition. 🧣

Photo 1 (left) – Me posing before heading to church on that Big Day, wearing the salmon dress. The crooked top line bothered me—I didn’t think it looked cute or anything. But that was that. I can count on one hand how many times I actually wore it.

Photo 2 (right)– Back from church. I finally got to wear my “Pull tube,” a classic among the knitters at the time. Not only did it keep me warm, but it also hid that dress.

My godfather explained how to pull the roll in the camera—serious business. One of my many cousins stood behind, listening to his dad.

What about you, dear readers? Do you have special memories of family gatherings—or maybe stories of your own catechism adventures? I’d love to hear them!

And, as always, thank you for reading and for being part of this little journey with me.