Without a Word_ How a Boy's Unspoken Love Changed Everything - Jill Kelly [19]
The Stations of the Cross were on the walls in between breathtaking stained-glass windows. Whenever I looked up at them, which wasn’t often, the words that came to mind were “Crucify Him! Crucify Him!” I hated shouting those words when we did the Stations before Easter every year. A shiny statue of Mary, the mother of Jesus, was located to the right of the altar near the side entrance of the church. She looked so beautiful and gentle. I can’t remember what the statue to the left of the altar looked like, but I remember the cross that hung above the altar. It was massive, and I didn’t want to look at it because it made me sad. Jesus’ face was heartrending and His body was naked except for the loincloth around His waist. He looked horrible.
I never understood the cross or why Jesus was nailed there to die. And we never talked about Him. Never. The Bible stories taught during Sunday school classes were fun, but I didn’t learn anything about Jesus or His sacrifice—the crux of which would’ve been crucial for me to comprehend if I was ever to have a relationship with Him. I don’t remember praying to Him either, but I prayed to Mary a lot. I liked her. I didn’t know anything about Mary except that she was the mother of Jesus and she was good. So as I was taught to do from the time I was a little girl, I prayed the Hail Mary: “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed are thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”
I didn’t understand what sin was either, or that I was a sinner… but I prayed about that, too—when I had to. Especially after confession. I couldn’t wait to get out of that musty, gloomy cubicle so that I could finish my ten Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys and be on my way.
I was always scared to go behind the curtain into that little confessional booth. You had to whisper so that the other people waiting to go in after you wouldn’t hear all your sins. And even worse, I was worried that the priest on the other side of the dense screen might figure out who I was and tell my parents!
What was a kid to do? I tried to sound as unlike me as I could. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was…” Unfortunately, I could never remember when my last confession was, so on top of all the other sins I confessed, I had to acknowledge that I’d lied about the date of my last confession.
I thought I was a good girl most of the time anyway, so during a few confessions I even made up some of my sins. I had to say something! It was all so stressful.
As much as I dreaded confession, though, church itself was just a part of life. Going to church was what we did. It didn’t matter if my brother, Jack, and I were tired or sick, we had to go. Every Sunday. And we had to look good.
We had our church clothes, our school clothes, and our play clothes. We dressed especially nice on Easter and Christmas. I wasn’t much for dresses and skirts, but getting decked out for Easter mass was a must every year. However, as soon as I got home, those clothes were instantly replaced with play clothes. After all, I had to be in something more comfortable before digging through my Easter basket full of goodies.
For me, Easter was about finding where my mother hid my basket of candy. Even as an adult, I seldom thought about the death of Jesus or the historical reality of His glorious resurrection. But after Hunter got sick, my search for God intensified as if my very life, and Hunter’s, depended on it.
I wanted and needed to know more about God. I was consumed with difficult questions that begged for answers,