First off, did anyone sing the title of this post to the tune of Fancy by Iggy Azalea? Because go back and do that.
It was the morning of my sister’s first communion. (I’m about to give all non-Catholics a crash course in this religious rite of passage.)
It’s basically an opportunity for seven-year-olds to get crazy rich. Imagine bar-mitzvahs but for Catholics. (I may be offending a lot of people.)
Basically, you eat a wafer that is supposed to symbolize the body of Christ and drink wine, that symbolizes the blood of Christ. It’s basically symbolic cannibalism. But not as creepy as that. I used to think of it as eating a wafer-size Jesus who takes care of your insides. (That’s also why I wasn’t selected for anyone’s team during Bible Bingo).
It’s a big deal in a Catholic family, especially an Irish Catholic family, and I was excited to be in Dublin to see my sister do her thang. It was a small affair because, like most families with their last kid, they don’t try as hard. So she missed her first communion with the other seven-year-olds but five years later she’s going to a Catholic school in Ireland and was put on the fast track through confession and communion.
The local priest agreed to squeeze her in before her Catholic school had their confirmation. (Wow, there is so much backstory here. Maybe this post is only for Catholics. I’ve decided to be uninclusive in the name of God.)
FINALLY, we’re at the actual story of the day. I curled Abigail’s hair all pretty and she had on a lovely white dress and we realized this 12-year-old doesn’t own a strapless bra. (Neither do I, and I’m a grown woman).
I encouraged the no-bra, possible band-aid, technique but she wasn’t having it in front of a priest. So when my mom left the room we dug through her drawer to find an old bra we could cut the straps off.
We were running late to mass and everyone yelled for us to come down. Without scissors in sight, we used an Exacto-knife (she’s into crafts) to shred through. We emerged triumphant. Screw you, Victoria [Secret].
There was too many of us going to the church so we separated into two cars. My brother, my aunt, Nick and I took off ahead of them and arrived at the nearest church within minutes. Since we arrived early we used our time luxuriously. We chatted in the car, we strolled across the lawn, we even took our time finding a seat.
No one else was there.
Mass was starting soon and then it hit us all at once. We gathered our jackets and pride and ran past a confused usher.
“Where are you going?” he shouted at our retreating backs.
“We’re at the wrong church!”
Churchgoers watched us trip over ourselves back to the car.
I yelled back at them,”Sorry, we realized we’re Jewish!”
On the way to the right church, we listened to a radio host discuss a dating site for married people to cheat on their spouses. (Finally something relatable, right? Farmers Only has had its time in the sun.)
“You know, Dr. Seus cheated on his terminally ill wife,” my brother said as we sprinted from the parking spot.
“Stephen Hawking cheated on his wife too,” Nick said as we approached the doors.
“And he was the terminal one, the bastard,” I said as we walked directly into the front of the church.
Silence. The congregation stared at us.
I crossed myself and joined my family in the front row. I thought I would be slowly forgotten once the service started. I soon realized my family was in the front row because it was Abigail’s special day.
“Abigail’s sister is joining us today all the way from the states,” I waved meekly.
Then it was the big moment. We lined up behind Abigail as she swallowed a little bit of Jesus and we each took our own turn. When it was just the priest and I he said, “You’re definitely sisters”.
What was the emphasis for? Did Abigail also call a brilliant recently deceased physicist an illegitimate child in front of the whole congregation?
I had never spoken directly with a priest before, except through the small holes of a confession booth (another Catholic thing) and I panicked.
“I did her hair,” I stuttered and ran back to my pew like a good Catholic.
Thank god (no pun intended) the rest of the day all of the attention was on Abigail. People from the church flocked to her to wish her well.
Two little old ladies looked at her fondly and said, “You’ll never be as holy as you are on the day of your first communion.”
Well, isn’t that nice. I don’t know, is it?