As soon as my eyes opened, I saw it. It hovered over the chair like a billowy spring cloud. My First Communion dress was a puff of sheer perfection. The lines were simple but elegant. There were knife pleats, sheer sleeves and the merest hint of a ruffled skirt. To an eight year old, it was the very definition of a special occasion dress. My veil trailed on a hanger nearby. My mother had crafted it from a piece of her own wedding veil. It was an impressive halo of lace and netting.
The day began with a Mass. The boys and girls were lined up in pairs, shortest to tallest. I have no memory of the homily, but I do remember receiving communion. I remember thinking that First Holy Communion was the holiest thing I had done up to that point. I was struck by the fact that Jesus Christ could be present to me, a little girl. The very idea of it made me feel honored.
I am one of four girls, so going out to dinner was reserved for special events. My parents took me to a lovely Italian restaurant. I ordered lasagna. My Dad ordered one too many cocktails and was loud. He even interrupted the couple at the next table with his banter. My stomach started to hurt. I went to the bathroom. I thought I might be sick. My parents commented that I must be overtired from such a big day. I was not tired; I was mortified. As we left the restaurant, the couple from the next table were standing in the parking lot. My Dad told the man, "Go ahead and kiss her" very loudly. My stomach hurt.
At the end of the day, I thought that I took off my Communion dress, but I actually wore it for 44 more years. The dress changed materials. No longer diaphanous, it was heavy like wool, yet invisible to the naked eye. It acquired patches of Velcro where my Dad's shortcomings stuck. Last year, I finally took off the dress.
I made time for spiritual reading and reflection a priority. I started asking myself difficult questions about faith and forgiveness. One day I was cleaning my house and I was thinking about my Dad, now deceased ten years. I found myself thinking about my Communion day, my dress, and lasagna. I sat down on the floor and wept. I wept for the little girl in white, but I also wept for the awkward drinking Dad. As an adult I understand that he had both substance abuse and learning challenges. He was not mean, but he could be selfish and childish.
Here's what I know: Jesus Christ comes for the girl in white AND the loud Dad. When the apostles asked Jesus how to pray, he gave them the Lord's prayer. It says "Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us." It does NOT say, forgive when it's easy and costs you nothing.
None of us is perfect and our frailties vary. When I moved from simply feeling hurt to feeling for my Dad's inability to connect with others, I was astonished by the power of forgiveness. Forgiveness does not condone behavior, it brings it into the Light. A few days later, I sat in meditation. I thought about Dad, and suddenly, in my mind's eye, I saw the Communion dress. It floated upward into a dark blue night, shimmered, and then slowly dissolved into stars. That is the power of forgiveness.
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| First Holy Communion |
I am one of four girls, so going out to dinner was reserved for special events. My parents took me to a lovely Italian restaurant. I ordered lasagna. My Dad ordered one too many cocktails and was loud. He even interrupted the couple at the next table with his banter. My stomach started to hurt. I went to the bathroom. I thought I might be sick. My parents commented that I must be overtired from such a big day. I was not tired; I was mortified. As we left the restaurant, the couple from the next table were standing in the parking lot. My Dad told the man, "Go ahead and kiss her" very loudly. My stomach hurt.
At the end of the day, I thought that I took off my Communion dress, but I actually wore it for 44 more years. The dress changed materials. No longer diaphanous, it was heavy like wool, yet invisible to the naked eye. It acquired patches of Velcro where my Dad's shortcomings stuck. Last year, I finally took off the dress.
I made time for spiritual reading and reflection a priority. I started asking myself difficult questions about faith and forgiveness. One day I was cleaning my house and I was thinking about my Dad, now deceased ten years. I found myself thinking about my Communion day, my dress, and lasagna. I sat down on the floor and wept. I wept for the little girl in white, but I also wept for the awkward drinking Dad. As an adult I understand that he had both substance abuse and learning challenges. He was not mean, but he could be selfish and childish.
Here's what I know: Jesus Christ comes for the girl in white AND the loud Dad. When the apostles asked Jesus how to pray, he gave them the Lord's prayer. It says "Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us." It does NOT say, forgive when it's easy and costs you nothing.
None of us is perfect and our frailties vary. When I moved from simply feeling hurt to feeling for my Dad's inability to connect with others, I was astonished by the power of forgiveness. Forgiveness does not condone behavior, it brings it into the Light. A few days later, I sat in meditation. I thought about Dad, and suddenly, in my mind's eye, I saw the Communion dress. It floated upward into a dark blue night, shimmered, and then slowly dissolved into stars. That is the power of forgiveness.
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