One of my favorite childhood, classroom memories is my second grade nun reading to the class the story of St. Bernadette. After hearing the story, I knew that the Blessed Virgin Mary was just waiting to say, “Hell-o Eddie.” If I was good, and did not tell a lie, and did not wish my brother to trip on his shoe lace, and I did not want that coke and popcorn, and I did not……then Mary would say, “Eddie, I am here. You are now a saint because you can see me.”
About the same time, as a small child, I remember being sick with a fever and Dr. Bill coming to the house. I see a vision, but then the story of Bernadette and the children at Fatima with Mary appearing to them was fresh in my world. Was Mary coming to give me an important letter for the Pope? While I had no sheep to herd, perhaps She would appear to me. Dr. Bill gave my mother some pills, and my febrile visions abated.
My neighborhood and St. Andrew Elementary was an excellent place to be a child. We had parents, neighbors, nuns, and who knows how many eyes watching to make sure we safely spent our days and ended on the correct path? When Hillary Clinton wrote her thesis of it taking a village to raise a child, I immediately understood. I was blessed with a village.
For me the BVM was always hovering about and waiting for the right moment to appear. Perhaps the statue in the side altar on her side of the church would suddenly move, or glow, or blood would drip from the relief of her heart. During daily morning Mass I would kneel and day dream, looking for a sign from her. Sainthood was not going to come that easily so in sixth grade I gave it up, and I started the application and process to become an altar boy.
Studying and memorizing I met Father Herald in his office to recite the Mass’s Latin responses. You had to memorize Latin, but then suddenly the Mass was in English. Why didn’t they tell me that first? My mother was so proud. Little Eddie was going to serve at his first Mass. Aunt Pat and Uncle Ralph attended. It was almost as big as my first Holy Communion. Of course as a newbie I was partnered with a veteran altar boy. That helped until Communion.
In those days, Communion was served at the altar railing with each parishioner kneeling. Father Herald would place the host on the tongue, while I standing next to him, held the golden patten under the parishioner’s chin. My most sacred job was to catch any crumbs from the sacred bread. The patten looked like a small frying pan. It was gold on one side, and burnished brass on the other. The nuns had told us that the chalice and patten must be gold. They must be made of this precious metal to honor the sanctity of Christ’s body and blood.
Communion was progressing and I am thinking, “This is just about over. Tidy up after Communion, and I have accomplished my first Mass serving as an altar boy!”
Then I looked down and realized, that I had the patten upside down. “Holy Jesus! If there are any of his body parts on the patten, THEY AREN’T on the gold side!”
This sixth grader’s mind was racing, “What do I do? Fr. Herald will kill me! when he notices that I have allowed Jesus to fall on the non-gold side.”
I decide to flip the patten to the correct side….
“OH NO! I just dumped all the Jesus’ parts on the altar floor!”
The last few moments of Mass went quickly, and as we hung our cassocks and surplices in the closet, Father Herald gave us the standard thanks. I met my waiting family and proud mother outside of the church. We went home where I avoided my homework, sure that my sins would never be forgiven. Too worried and embarrassed, I never told my mother how I had failed.
It was winter and snowed that night of my first Mass as an altar boy. I hoped that we would have enough snow to cancel school. But then I realized, even with no school, I would still have to serve at early morning Mass with Father H.
