Almost a Year Ago

I’m rather fond of talking about my high school days. Though, that was rather surprised at their onset. I was determined to hate my time at the Catholic school my parents decided I should attend. We had family there and they spoke rather glowingly of it. I was successful and my freshman year was about as miserable as I could make it. I said goodbye to the friends I had struggled against making and thought I’d barely remember by my college days.

Back to my old school and old friends, just like I wanted. Suddenly they weren’t quite so friendly. We didn’t sit at the same lunch table all the time like we used to. We’d wave. Hang out less. And less. And less. Until all our friendships were waving. Meanwhile, the friends I had made during my freshman year kept inviting me places. Their houses, a farm, a rugby match against rivals, so on and so forth.
          
With a sunken head and swallowed pride, I asked my parents if I could go back midway through my sophomore year. They let on no pride or feeling of victory but had me back where I belonged by my junior year. It was a time of growth for me. My mind and heart were opening, and being opened, to timeless truths. I saw unity in families praying together. I saw love in friends’ sacrifice for and trust in one another. I saw fortitude and resolve and patience and every virtue under the sun exemplified by my friends. These are the timeless things for which we are born. By the end of that year, I was ready to learn about the Catholic faith.

During my senior year, I began an RCIA class and opted to study apologetics rather than philosophy. Long before I told anyone, I was ready to convert. God guided me along and brought me to leap into a life of faith. Soon, my friends told me of a trip to Rome that would happen over Holy Week. They dreamed about my confirmation in Rome. They dreamed about my own good and joy, and that was enough for them. I told them that it was too huge of a dream, inspiring but ridiculous. They dragged me before the teacher planning the trip. He smiled, said, “I will talk to the people,” and that was that. I was confirmed in Rome on April 20th, 2019. It was the Easter Vigil Mass. My high school chaplain gave me first communion.
          
Before I had ever gone to Rome or my friends thought of the idea, I began going to Mass every day. I’d kneel with crossed arms and watch the Eucharist be given to everyone but me. I wanted Him desperately. Still, I bore my cross and arms obediently, waiting for the day when I could receive. One day, I slipped into the confessional and said, “I don’t know if I’m allowed to like do confession but I… I just think I need to.” The priest heard my confession and gave me absolution. I’m not sure if that was wholly legal or if he understood what I was saying (he had a thick Spanish accent). Time passed and the sacraments became common to me; they felt like nothing special. I thought about those times the other day while sitting in adoration. It had been so long since I burned for the sacraments since I felt the absence so sharply. I feel that pain again, that cross over my back. I think we all do.