My First Communion

My parents were so proud of me that day.  As any Catholic parent would be.  I was in second grade.  And this was a big deal.  I remember my ivory dress, knee length with scallops along the edges.  Puff sleeves.  True late 80s style.

Here’s my first communion picture. 

I like how I am looking up as though I have seen an Angel of God.

It's quite comical actually. With 4 kids running around, and I the youngest, my Mom didn’t end up getting my communion photos taken until I was in 4^th grade.  I wore the same dress. Tighter this time.  And me, a bit older looking. The flowers upon my head now dry and brittle.   My other sibling’s first communion pictures were framed and mounted on the wall in the living room.  Three in a row.  I think missing the fourth created guilt my mom could bear no longer. Even though it was two years later, she finally had them taken. I was framed and lined up with the others, and she could be at peace again.

But I digress. Back to the Sacrament at hand. 

Our whole class practiced the week before. Walking in single file to the altar where Father Filel (if you were lucky) presented you with the host, The Body of Christ.  Your duty was to stick your tongue out and say Amen. 

Not like this. 

Note: I was not this bad.

More like this. 

Note: I was not this good.

We practiced by eating an unblessed wafer.  It looked just liked the blessed one to me.  It tasted pretty bad.  But I grimaced and swallowed. . . the first time.  The second time, the blessed time, the time of importance, the REAL first time. . .  I had somewhat of a different experience.



Sacrament

I spit Christ out at the first taste of Him. 

He was bland and wadding to the roof of my mouth.

In my white dress and crown of flowers,

I dropped Him in my hand and stuck him under the pew,

Like a ball of gum that lost its flavor.

[Poem by: Aimee Mandala, © 2005]

[Source]

I guess both my first communion and my first communion picture were equally flawed.