The Joy of Jesus
by Caitlin Morrissey
I entered the Madeleine, a private Catholic school, under four feet and without any religion. I had never been to church, and had no idea who Jesus was. Barney and friends were more familiar to me than the holy family. My father, who had renounced Catholicism in his early twenties, got the sudden urge to go back to the church, and with him he dragged my sister and me. Kindergarten was the beginning of a long nine years in the House of God.
I can’t remember the exact point when I first learned about God and Jesus. I’m sure that as a kindergartener the fact that Jesus died to save our souls from eternal damnation meant less than the fact that toucans lived in the rainforest. I do remember, however, when we learned sign language.
One day at Morning Assembly, held right after school started when the whole student body gathered on the playground and listened to a prayer from fellow students and announcements from our principal, Mr. Calegari, the Kindergarten had the chance to lead the prayer. I was deathly afraid of my teacher, Mr. Dean, who could make even the strongest adult break down in tears, so I had positioned myself as far away from him as possible. My friend Olivia didn’t get so lucky, as she was late and had to walk up to Mr. Dean to tell him. Her eyes filled with tears as she looked at me while Mr. Dean gave her a big scolding. Soon, however, his attention was called back to the prayer and he took the microphone from Mr. Calegari like a seasoned professional.
“Ok, ready class?” he asked, with his slight nasal twang. “One, two, three…” He moved his arms like a musical composer, which I think was his true calling in life.
On cue, we started singing and signing. “Jesus, remember me, when you come into your kingdom. Jesus, remember me, when you come into your kingdom.”
My eyes were squinty, and my tongue stuck out just slightly. I frowned my face, twisting my hands a different way as I sang each word. I don’t think I realized the significance of the song, in which we were asking Jesus to remember us after he died. I was too focused on making sure I got all the signs right so that Mr. Dean wouldn’t be able to yell at me. I’m sure he yelled anyway.
I had been attending church for over a year now. Although I still couldn’t figure out the times to stand up and kneel, I was pretty familiar with the general outline. First the priest stood up and said lots of boring stuff that I didn’t understand. Then everyone got up and filed to the front of the church for what they said was Communion, the body and blood of Christ, but to me it only looked like vanilla wafers. Unfortunately, because I hadn’t made my first communion yet, I had to go up to the priest with my arms crossed over my chest. He then touched me on the head and I got to go back to my seat. After that, the priest said a lot more boring stuff that I couldn’t understand.
It was only the very last part of mass that I had memorized fully: “The mass has ended, let us go in peace.” For me, this signified two very important things: the end of church and, best of all, donuts. When the priest said those beautiful words, all us kids would make a mad dash for the exit, our pockets filled with 50 cents we had asked our parents for in the first five minutes of mass, and ran out to where a table with donuts was always set up. If you were late, or your parents made you wait for the priest to walk back down the aisle, you were inevitably stuck with bran muffins or the plain kind of donut with no frosting. My sister and I were almost always first in line, except for the times where she would trip down the stairs and I wouldn’t notice until I got to the table. I would have to go all the way back to the stairs and drag her down to the donut table. There was no way I was going to get stuck with a stupid bran muffin after suffering through what felt like hours of long boring stuff. In reality, church was only an hour, but to me, that seemed like forever. I sat through the whole mass in eager anticipation, worshiping the god of donuts and his holy family. After all, donuts were sugary and sweet and I didn’t even get to taste the Jesus wafers. Donuts were an excellent alternative, and my sweet savior.
I made my first communion in second grade. Baptized the previous year, I wasn’t one of the non-Catholic kids who had to do other boring activities while we, the privileged Catholics, got to learn all about the holy sacrament of first communion. I was so excited to finally receive communion and taste the wafers the priest always handed out. I learned that they only represented the body of Jesus, who died on the cross for our sins.
At home, I made my dad help me practice for my big day. We would stand at opposite side of the kitchen. I would silently and respectfully walk down the pretend aisle to my father (which I learned was also the name for God. This led to great confusion which ultimately resulted in a long talk with my teacher explaining that my dad was not actually God). I cupped my hands, left on top of right, and held them up to him when I got close.
“The body of Christ,” he said.
“Amen,” I replied, as he took a wafer shaped vitamin C, which I made him buy specially, and placed it in my hand. I, then, took the wafer and plopped it in my mouth, the sour taste of too much orange filling my taste buds. My sister would often follow behind me, mimicking my exact motion, right down to the pinched face I made when I received the “body.”
On the day of my actual first communion, I couldn’t wait. I got up extra early that Sunday morning, and jumped into my fancy white dress. My mom brushed my hair, which was luckily growing out of the awful boy cut I had gotten, and put it back in a half ponytail.
Once we got to the church, I impatiently stood in line with the other kids who were also making their first communion. I had to sit through half the mass and an extra speech at the beginning announcing our special day, until it was finally here. This time I had been waiting for. Communion.
My stomach turned somersaults and my heart sped up as I walked toward the priest. Father George, our pastor, stood at the front of the church, his usual unhappy face glaring back at me and my classmates. Father George was Eeyore, the donkey from Winnie the Pooh, long lost twin, except for his bald head, big glasses, and round belly. Nervously I looked down, checking that my hands were the right way, though I couldn’t really tell because I’d never mastered the art of telling my right from left.
I got to the front of the line and lifted up my hands.
“The body of Christ,” Father George said.
“Amen,” I whispered, having lost control of my vocal volume because I was so excited.
Slowly I lifted the wafer to my mouth. I tasted nothing. No, I didn’t taste nothing, just like nothing that I had expected. The taste was probably further from anything I had imagined the body of Christ to be: cardboard. That’s right. Jesus tasted like cardboard. Shoulders hunched, I returned to my seat and crossed my arms, huffing and scowling. This is what I had been waiting for? This is what I had spent days dreaming about? Cardboard? Seriously? For the rest of mass I was too involved in my pouting to get excited for the after party. I was disappointed, and wanted everyone to know it. How could Jesus let me down like this? If he was really God’s son, shouldn’t he taste like chocolate, or at least a sugar cookie?
Always a pouter but never one to hold a grudge, I was over my disappointment just in time for the after party and tons of cookies (what a coincidence, right?). After devouring a plate of Oreos and brownies, my mouth ached for some milk. Wandering around all the different tables, I couldn’t find any, but luckily, I saw a bunch of orange juice in champagne flutes. I grabbed one off the table and downed it in one gulp.
“Blech!” I shouted and made a face. “That is the grossest orange juice ever!”
“Oh Caitlin,” said my religion teacher, Mrs. Skinner, “you just drank a mimosa!” She and a group of moms standing nearby all giggled and gave me the “You’re-so-cute-because-you’re-just-a-little-kid-and-you-don’t-really-know-anything” look. As they laughed, I rubbed my belly, aching with too many sweets and something called mimosa. I had no idea what mimosa was, but I didn’t touch a drop of orange juice for the rest of the year.
Fourth Grade
I thought I couldn’t have been luckier when Mrs. Ramos, the 4th grade teacher known for being the most boring woman on the planet, decided to take a year off. Mr. Paul Tilton, her replacement, introduced himself to us on the first day of school.
“After serving for many years as a Navy Seal and a Green Beret, I was awarded a purple heart for my bravery. When I left the military, I lived with a group of Franciscan brothers in San Francisco,” he told my 4th grade class.
Most of this speech went over my head. As a girl who spent all her free time playing Barbies with her sister, I had no idea what a Green Beret or purple heart was. But all the boys in my class seemed to think this was the best thing ever.
“I wonder if he ever killed someone,” a kid in my class said.
“Maybe he’ll bring in pictures of all the guns he used.”
“Oh man, that’d be so cool!”
On the third day of class he told us that we were going to be disciplined just like he was in the army. Every time he shouted “Atten-hut!” we were to get into a straight line, in alphabetical order by our last name, with our hands as straight as boards, placing our pinkies down the seam of our pants. We had to have perfect posture, be staring straight forward, and not say anything until he said, “At ease,” where we then had to take one step out to the side, moving only our right legs, and put our hands behind our back, with our arms bent at the elbows.
I thought this whole army thing was kind of exciting for the first couple of days. But then I tired of it, when I realized that standing perfectly still when you have a huge itch on your nose is extremely difficult. It seemed like every time I would make a tiny move to scratch the itch, Mr. Tilton always caught me and had me stay in at recess for detention.
Two days later, Mr. Tilton told us that we were going to have to memorize all the names of the books of the Bible, in order, starting with the Old Testament. Since there were over 40 books, he told us that we better get started, and that in one week we were going to have a test.
Seven days later, my brain was stuffed as full as it could go. Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy… I had made up a song to go along with the names. I sang it over and over in my head all morning, dreading the period right before lunch when we would have our test.
“Ok, so you’re all gonna get up in front of the class and recite whatever ten books I want you to. Don’t mess up, or you fail. Got it?” Mr. Tilton squinted his eyes, and looked at all of us. I swallowed the huge lump that had formed in the back of my throat and clenched my fists a little tighter.
“Ok, Cynthia Avila, you’re up first. Start with Psalms. Go.” As Cynthia started, pausing for a long time between each book, I looked at the clock. If it was already 11:20 and lunch started in 10 minutes, there was no way we could get all the way to “M,” right?
“Zorn, stop talking!” Mr. Tilton hurled a white board marker across the classroom and hit Ben Zorn right in the head. “What did I tell you about talking during class? Come on people. Don’t do it. Got it?”
As the seconds ticked by, my palms got sweatier. I started blinking really fast, thinking that this might somehow speed up time. But each time I checked the clock, it only seemed to be moving slower.
“Sit down, Hester, you got that wrong. It’s Jonah not Ezekiel.” Mr. Tilton told the next four people to sit down after only two books each. Oh no, that means I’m next, I thought. Shoot.
“Morrissey, let’s go. Start with Ruth.” I slowly walked to the front of the classroom, my legs felt wobbly, like the jello that was served in the cafeteria.
“Um… Ruth…. Samuel… Kings…Ezra,” I stuttered.
“Wrong. It’s Chronicles. Murrington, your turn.”
My face felt hot as I made my way back to my chair. I could feel the lump rising even higher in my throat, and this time when I tried to swallow it, it wouldn’t go down. Water started to form behind my eyes, and before I knew it, a drop had spilled out. As I sat in my desk, Kurt, the boy sitting next to me, poked me in the arm.
“Don’t be such a baby, Caitlin. He’s an ass.” The last word made my crying stop. My mouth dropped open, and I blushed again. I had never heard a kid my age use that word before- only my mom used it when she thought my sister and I couldn’t hear her. I closed my mouth, swallowed, and stared straight ahead. A huge picture of Jesus dying on the cross stared back at me. While the rest of the kids stood up to recite the books, I daydreamed and wondered if Jesus ever used bad words or had to memorize any of the books of the Bible. Probably not.
Slowly I lifted one eyelid to look at the clock by the side of my bed. 9:30. This was a good sign. They hadn’t come in to wake me up yet, and maybe they weren’t ever going to. My plan was to “sleep in” until 9:55, because by then there would be no way that we could get there on time. I closed my eyes and tried to fall back to sleep. I couldn’t. Maybe if I ran around my room and did a couple jumping jacks, I would get tired. I just had to make sure they wouldn’t hear me and come in and say we had to go. But I wouldn’t. I would tell them, I won’t go. Mom and Dad, I practiced, I’m not going to church.
“Caitlin, get up! Come on, we’re going to be late if you don’t get up now.” My dad’s booming voice could be heard from the room next to mine. Oh no, they’re really making me go. What was I going to do? How was I going to get out of this? I know- I’ll pretend I’m dead. Perfect.
When my dad burst into my room two minutes later, I was lying perfectly still on my bed. I sucked my breath in tight, and tried not to move one muscle.
“Let’s go, Caily. We’re going to be late for church.” I was dying for air, but I resisted the urge to exhale. My dad pulled off my comforter and opened up my blinds. I was starting to wonder if he was ever going to realize that his precious baby was dead. How can he not notice me?
As he walked out of the room, telling me that I better get up, young lady, or I’m going to be in trouble, I let out my breath. Obviously I wasn’t getting out of going to church, even if I was dead. Slowly, I got up, and tiptoed over to my closet, just in case he really did think I was dead and was keeping it to himself because he didn’t want to upset my mom. I slid open the white, slated door, and looked at all my clothes. Rows of skirts, dresses, velvet pants and dressy shirts stared back at me. Reluctantly, I reached out and grabbed the first thing that hit my hand: a pair of black velvet overalls. I slipped them on over a purple t-shit and crept toward the door. I didn’t hear any quiet weeping (maybe my dad had told my mom, but they didn’t want my sister finding out) so I walked out, announcing my presence.
“Hello? Didn’t anyone care that I was dead? I really don’t think I should be going to church in my condition.”
“Caitlin! Caitlin! Look what Daddy gave me!” My sister ran up to me, beaming from ear to ear, and shoved a two-dollar bill under my nose. “It’s for donuts!”
“Be quite, Molly Rose. I don’t want to talk to anyone.” Scowling down at her now unsmiling face, I silently made a vow to put part two of Plan Death into action next Sunday: don’t ever get out of bed.
I was itchy and cold, but there was nothing I could do about it. My stiff uniform pants were rubbing together, creating an awkward and uncomfortable chaffing sensation, and my old school sweatshirt was thinner than paper. I stood outside, shivering in the cold December morning, waiting for the 3rd graders to finish the prayer. I hate uniforms.
It had been two months since my last Free Dress. Free Dress was a day when we got to wear normal clothes, a break from our stuffy uniforms, although there were still a lot of restrictions on what kind of clothes were allowed. No spaghetti straps that were fewer than three fingers across or you’d be sent home. No baggy jeans, no short skirts, no makeup.
When one girl tried to wear a skirt that was more than three inches above her knee, my teacher yelled at her in front of our whole class and told her to go to the principal’s office. Ten minutes later I asked to go to the office to get a band-aid. As I peered into Mr. Calegari’s office, I saw my classmate holding a phone to her ear, tears streaming down her face.
I didn’t learn from my classmate’s mistake, however, and tried to wear my mom’s mascara and lipstick to school. The minute I entered my classroom, I knew I was busted.
“Caitlin, go wash that off your face right now,” Mrs. Martin, my anal 6th grade teacher, spat at me. Reluctantly, I made the journey down the two flights of stairs to the only bathroom in the whole school. As I splashed icy water onto my face, a little 3rd grader came up to me.
“Did you get a black eye or something?” she asked.
“No,” I responded.
“Oh,” she said, obviously still curious about what happened.
“Yeah, just don’t ever try to break any rules.”
“Why? Cause Jesus will hate you?”
“Yes, exactly. Jesus will hate you.”
It was finally time to graduate. After nine long years, I was entering my last day ever at the Madeleine: Graduation Day. The previous night, I hadn’t been able to sleep. I was restless; I wound the covers tight around me, squeezed my eyes shut, counted backwards from 100- nothing could get me to sleep. As I tossed and turned, I thought a lot about the last nine years. It was bewildering that it would all be over after tomorrow. I would probably never be in the same room with my classmates whom I had come to consider as brothers and sisters. This thought made my heart jump. These people, this school, were my security blanket. How was I going to get through the next four years without them?
“Ok, as soon as the music starts, you’re going to head down that aisle, just like we practiced. And remember to count to five before you follow the person in front of you.” My religion teacher’s voice snapped me out of my daydream. I straightened out my blue gown and touched my hands to my hair- a nervous habit. Others were clearing their throats, or tapping their feet. There was a feeling of excitement in the air- we all knew that this was the most important day of our lives so far, but what did that really mean? Should we be happy? Sad? Scared? Worried?
I was feeling a combination of all of them as I walked down the church aisle. Cannon in D, the most overplayed melody heard at almost every ceremony ever, was playing in the background. I looked over my right shoulder and saw my whole family. My mom was wiping the tears from her eyes as she smiled and waved at me. At that moment, the immensity of this occasion hit. I was graduating. I was leaving the Madeleine. This was the end- my last supper.
The tears began to fall as I slid into the pew, and kept falling throughout the whole ceremony. I really would miss this. This community. These people. They had become my second family, and leaving them I imagined would feel a little like being separated from your Siamese twin. When we got up to sing “our” song, Friends by Elton John, the words never rang more true for me. It seems to be a crime that we should age. These fragile times shall never slip us by. A time you never can or shall erase, as friends together watch their childhood fly. That’s exactly what we were- friends who grew up together and watched their childhood’s fly by.
In a second it was all over. The ceremony was done. We were getting up, out of the pews, walking back down the aisle. We were outside, giving each other hugs, trying not to get too emotional as we said our goodbyes. We were in cars, traveling down the streets to get to the after-party. We were dancing and singing and signing yearbooks. We were laughing and crying and whispering and yelling and doing whatever we could to make these last seconds last. But they didn’t. They slipped right by and before I knew it, I was home, in my bed, alone. That night I slept soundly, exhausted from the long day. When I woke up, I knew it was all over. No more Madeleine. No more religion classes. No more memorizing books of the Bible or dress code regulations. No more Church. As I lay back and thought about never having to go to church again, I smiled. Nothing, not even the most sugary donut, was that sweet.