Yesterday I am standing by a client's vehicle, doing his paperwork, when a black extended cab pickup pulls up about 10 yards away. Out of the driver's side emerges a little white haired lady, dressed in dark blue and gray, who proceeds to strut toward me at a rapid clip.
"Who do you work for?" she demands. After I tell her the name of our organization she then sternly inquires; "And what do YOU do?" I tell her that I conduct road tests for the State of Michigan and then I ask her the obvious - does she need to take her road test.
"No, I am a Sister, you know, a nun. I am a Sister of Mercy, Sister Mary Luke." The fact that she was a Sister did not really surprise me since she looked and dressed just like about 20 other Sisters I've met along the way.
I show her the back of my left hand which has about a dozen white spots that are the result of scars received when I played football and would occasionally end up on the bottom of a pile of humanity. Some of that humanity wore steel cleats which would rip little hunks of skin off my exposed hands. As I grow older these spots of raised skin don't tan and so appear white in the summer months.
I tell Sister Mary Luke that I know all about Sisters and then add this little white lie. "See those white scars on the back of my hand? - Catholic education!"
"Now wait a minute" she retorts, wondering now if she had lost her initial advantage. "It's not really like that." I reply with a wink; "Oh I'm sure things have changed quite a bit."
We then formally introduce each other. I am bob, a lowly cog in the Driver's Training and Testing Division of the State of Michigan who works for one of the myriad slightly bigger cogs the State needs to maintain order and sanity on the roads of the dominion. She is
Sister Mary Luke, Director of Education for St. Marys. She works for a dominion much bigger than mine.
It seems that every few years the good Sisters need to get their driving evaluated and they currently use the services of Mary Free Bed Hospital, an organization they are associated with, which charges about 10 times what we will. I tell Sister Mary Luke where to go and how to get there and I think this should mean more business for our organization.
I am the product of Catholic education. Grades 2 through 8 were spent at St. Francis de Sales elementary, public high school was supplemented by weekly CCD classes at the church and my college years saw me at Aquinas, named for St. Thomas Aquinas who provided the inspiration for our athletic team's nickname - "The Tommies". That nickname had been good for decades but with the advent of more women sports and the awkwardness of calling them "The Lady Tommies" the school choose while I was there to change over to the generic "Saints".
School at St. Francis would start for me everyday by getting off the bus and going into St. Francis de Sales Church for Mass, the church being located between the old and the new school building. After Mass we would then head to our classrooms. When I was in 2nd or 3rd grade our class started learning about the Sacraments and we were each given a little black missalette which explained everything and included pictures. The first thing we were prepared for was confession.
Our church had a confessional in the back. There was a door for the priest to enter a little room and flanked on each side was another room that was entered through a curtain. This is where one would go to confess their sins to the priest. On the outside of each were two little lights; one red, either for occupied or maybe to represent the fires of Hell, and the other was green which meant, come on in, the water's fine. The priest would never be visible but when he was ready for you he slid back a little screen so we could whisper at each other through a muslin covering.
The day for our first confession was nothing special. Not like receiving your first communion which required a solemn high mass on Sunday, boys dressed with black pants, white shirts and ties, girls dressed in mini white bridal outfits. No, first confession was a mid week deal. Our class sat in the pews near the confessional, nervous, waiting each our turn and watching to see which one of us required too much extra time in the box. When my turn came I repeated what we were taught; "Bless me Father for I have sinned, my last confession was . . . ", and then you fill in the blank and spill your guts. In 3rd grade all I ever could come up with was that I fought with my brother. For that you get one Our Father and five Hail Marys, head to the front of the church and kneel there to say your penance and then rejoin your class. In the missalette they show a young boy going into confession with a very serious look on his face and he comes out with this great big smile. At that time I actually didn't really feel any different but I made sure to exit smiling.
The family of my father's best friend from St. Louis used to rent a cottage for a couple of weeks every summer with our family. He was a lawyer and I remember one of the boys, Mark, who became a lawyer later on, went to confession at our church and the Monsignor (those are the guys with the fancy four corner hats) gave him a penance of something like 10 Our Fathers and 25 Hail Marys. After he exited the confessional he got to be thinking that his penance was too severe so he went back in to complain. The Monsignor, not impressed and perhaps knowing a lawyer or two, added on two rosaries.
There is the story of the Irish lady with seven kids who went to confession. "Father, my little ones are running me ragged. The boys jump all over the furniture and punch each other, the girls scream and scratch and sometimes I just yell at them." The priest begins to give this advice. "Now good lady, remember the example of our blessed Mother" but is interrupted by the woman who replies; "Hurumpp, her and her one!"
After our first confession we began to study for our First Holy Communion. Now I know that it is supposed to be a big deal on a Sunday and everything else I told you but there I was, a little third grader, just off the bus, sitting with my other class mates near the front of church at morning Mass, and I see some people near me getting up and heading to the front to get communion. My young mind thinks, "Is this the day? I sure don't want to miss this one." So I exit the pew, stand in front of the priest, open my mouth, stick out my tongue, and get the host. About 20 seconds after I get back to my pew our Sister/Teacher heads over to me and says; "Open your mouth!" She looks, doesn't say anything more and heads back to her seat. At this point I figured I probably screwed up and when I get back home I tell the story to my dad. He laughs and tells me; "Did the same thing when I was your age". I figured I had my first communion and two weeks later I had my first HOLY communion.
You have to watch yourself at a Catholic school but sometimes things happen. When I was in 8th grade the guys would play softball during recess. I was one of only a few who could hit the ball over the chain link fence in left field. Richard Bliss could sometimes clear the fence and deposit it on the second floor flat roof of Wade Drug Store across the street which would then end our game but I think he was, you know with his beard and switch knife, a couple of years older than the rest of us. On one of the days I hit the ball over the fence it landed on the hood of a car that was driving by. The car screeches it's brakes and out steps our principle, Sister Mary Kenneth. The boys looked at me and then said; "If you hit a religious, that's a mortal sin!" I'm pretty sure they were teasing me but I did notice that for several weeks no one would sit next to me at lunch.
On the upside, I could now say in confession; "I fought with my brother 5 times and, Oh yea, I hit a nun."
