The nuns approached preparation for First Communion like basic training in the army. We practiced our procession for weeks and weeks, girls in the front rows, and the boys behind us with the shortest kids in front. By the spring of second grade, we were pros at walking in and out of church in a procession but now Sister Ann Josephine had to get down to the nitty gritty: learning about Mass. She painstakingly took us through each portion, telling us what we were to do at each part. She was young, energetic and raised with an Irish-Catholic upbringing that moved her to instruct us with a zealousness that instilled an enthusiasm and excitement at preparing for our first communion.
“No, genuflect with your back straight, you love God and you are honoring Him with a GEN-U-FLEC-TION, (her black robes swished around her as she demonstrated) now this is so special children, your special day and you will be filled with God’s love, you must be ready to receive it!!!” She smiled a broad wide smile, her arms wide open as she spoke, she hugged herself when speaking of God’s love and we smiled back, sitting up straight, hands clasped on our desks and ready to have her show us the way. Even though this was pre-Sound of Music, she looked like Julie Andrews twirling away on the mountain top.
At the offertory, we were to sing our Communion song, a child’s song that the class practiced every day for at least a month, and that my whole family knew by the time Saturday, April 13 rolled around:
Dearest Lord I love Thee
With my whole, whole heart
Not for what Thou givest
But for what Thou art.
Come oh come Sweet Savior
Come to me and stay
For I love Thee Jesus
More than I can say.
We had started learning the song in school, but then Sister brought us in church. It was empty, except for our class - already we were experiencing the specialness that she spoke of - and the echoes of our footsteps as we walked in added to the building excitement. We moved into the front pews, knowing the exact places she wanted us to sit.
"Stand up, children. Let's practice our song," she said, a little above a whisper. Her hands raised up, and we began. Our young voices resonated like bells in the church, sounding so different from our sessions in the classroom. The words came out so pure and clear, perfectly on key, we had practiced so much. As we finished, Sister smiled at us. Her hard work had paid off.
On the Friday before the big day, we had to have our first confession - with the strongest admonition that we had to remain in the state of absolute grace throughout the evening and into the next day. We memorized the words and knew them flawlessly: “Bless me Father, for I have sinned and this is my first confession.” We had practiced with Sister in listing our sins and she helped us to figure out what they were; seven year olds did not have much to tell beyond fights with their siblings, disobeying parents, a lie here and there, and if you were really bad, you might have to add swearing.
Again we filed into the church, but this time with butterflies in our stomachs, looking at where the priests were hidden in the confessional boxes as they awaited the penitent second graders with their lists of transgressions. We watched carefully as each one of our classmates came out, wondering what penances they were given, if they had been yelled at, if it was scary in the dark. Sometimes a kid came out crying and it scared us beyond belief.
By the next day, we were more than ready. We had fasted since the night before, confession had cleaned our souls, and Sister had prepared her charges with the precision of a drill team. The church was filled with proud parents and relatives and we processed down the aisle in our white and blue finery. Strains of music came from the organ above in the balcony. The priest and altar boys entered from the side sacristy. They approached the steps below the altar, bowed, and began the opening prayers in Latin. The priest stepped up to the altar, his back to the congregation, and continued in this language that was foreign to us, but one that was becoming very familiar to us.
The consecration, we had thoroughly learned by now, was the most solemn part of the Mass. Heads bowed down and the first bell, complete silence in the church, heads go up as the priest raises the host above his head to the tone of the next bells, heads go down as he brings the host down to the altar and genuflects. We repeat the exercise for the chalice of wine. Even if you were a chronic mass-talker, you NEVER talked during the consecration - we were convinced such a sin came with major punishment, on earth or in the hereafter, and never risked the sin.
When the big moment finally came, communion time, we had the movements all down pat. The smallest kids were in the front pews, and each row stood, carefully filed out to the communion rail and knelt down. The priest came down the rail, altar boy holding the patent under our chins as we received the hosts on our tongues. The patent was a flat, gold plate with a handle at one end, used to avoid the disastrous possibility of a host falling on the floor. (At home, we would play with badmitton rackets and Necco wafers, pretending to go to communion. It was a good way to make the candy last longer, and if you got to be the the priest, you gave your sister all the Neccos you didn’t like.)
Everyone was curious as to what communion would taste like. We had asked Sister questions like, “what if it sticks to the roof of my mouth? Can I touch it to get it off?” Answer: never touch the host with your fingers. “What if I get sick and throw it up?” Answer: Call a priest. “What if I don’t like the taste?” Answer: It doesn’t really taste of anything. Later, we found out that communion tasted just like the edible fake flowers the bakery put on fancy cakes.
As each row knelt at the railing, the second row stood up and began to file out. When the new communicants left the railing, the next row was ready to kneel down. We returned to our pews, waited until the last kid was in the pew, then knelt down as one - perfectly done and no one was over the age of eight! Once back in our places, we buried our faces in our hands, head down so low, praying so hard as the Sisters taught us, filled with gratitude at such a wonderful blessing.
After Mass, the procession out of church began with the short boys and girls from the front pews, followed by the parents, family and friends. A professional photographer had taken photos from the balcony during the mass - all done very unobtrusively to maintain the solemnity of the ceremony. The resulting black and white photos remained as crisp and sharp decades later as the day on which they were taken.
We also took pictures afterward in the classrooms (see Mom and me at right). The girls paraded around the room showing off our white gloves and making our veils blow in the breeze. We felt we were like brides. As we walked out the door to go home where a big family party would begin, my uncle Swede drove up in front of the school, got out and handed me a bouquet of roses - I was so touched by the special attention, but it was a classic Uncle Swede move. Throughout my life he would do things like that.
My grandmothers, mother and aunts had prepared the huge meal that awaited us back at our apartment. Relatives, friends and neighbors all stopped by to enjoy the feast and have a few drinks on the cool spring afternoon. They brought gifts, of course, usually what we called a "boosta" - money in a card. I also received a few prayer books and a statue of Mary.
All the kids played in the lot and I got to wear my communion dress most of the day until my mother suggested I wear something else so it wouldn't get dirty. Nonno took some movies as we ran around, encouraging us to stop and wave to the camera. It was a special day for the whole family, and no matter how many years have gone by, I can remember almost everything about it.
