We were lined up by height, walking somberly to the altar, pews filled with proud parents.
Back then Granny couldn’t afford much, but she got me an Avon Batman brush as a gift.
I was at home here. Praying, singing, kneeling, and being filled with the spirit. 
In the photo of our class that day, I am toothless, looking off camera. I know I was happy. 

Back then Granny couldn’t afford much, but she got me an Avon Batman brush as a gift.
I imagine now the Avon lady coming to her door, Granny sitting by the room unit, looking over the catalogue page by page.
In the photo of our class that day, I am toothless, looking off camera. I know I was happy.
Years later, we found out what the priest had done to that community, to those kids. 

I imagine now the Avon lady coming to her door, Granny sitting by the room unit, looking over the catalogue page by page.
What do you get a child? What do you get this child? What will his parents think? 
Years later, we found out what the priest had done to that community, to those kids. 
The parents, horrified in their blind trust. The newspapers laying bare the worst. 
 
What do you get a child? What do you get this child? What will his parents think?
The trial stretched out. We knew the name of the priest--the children’s names, only whispered guesses.
The parents, horrified in their blind trust. The newspapers laying bare the worst. 
And one lingering memory: A priest doing chin-ups on the blacktop, children beneath him, counting.

The trial stretched out. We knew the name of the priest--the children’s names, only whispered guesses.
We moved to the church across town. It was the first of several moves my parents made on principle.
And one lingering memory: A priest doing chin-ups on the blacktop, children beneath him, counting.
And a memory my mother shared only recently: Shouting at the pastor in the rectory, slamming the door.

We moved to the church across town. It was the first of several moves my parents made on principle.
An unnecessarily partisan homily here, an unwelcoming community there. Where is the life of the spirit? 
And a memory my mother shared only recently: Shouting at the pastor in the rectory, slamming the door.
These cloistered virgins were in over their heads. I almost pity them. I tried to love them. 

An unnecessarily partisan homily here, an unwelcoming community there. Where is the life of the spirit? 
My parents, hungry for the body of Christ, made a home that seems now like an answered prayer.
These cloistered virgins were in over their heads. I almost pity them. I tried to love them. 
What could they know about the faithful? Didn’t they know this passing stop for them was home for us?

My parents, hungry for the body of Christ, made a home that seems now like an answered prayer.
Where two or three are gathered together in His name, G-d is there. You felt it. You knew it. 
What could they know about the faithful? Didn’t they know this passing stop for them was home for us?
Some have married. Some have died. Some moved on. Two that blessed me then are now in prison. 

These days I walk down the aisle rarely. But I still believe. And I pray that I go in peace to love & serve. 

This is my first pantoum ever, a kind of return to this moment. The title is from Psalm 34:8.