Grace
You are five years old when your mother marries the local Catholic priest and drags your heathen, vegetarian butt into a world of omnivorous, wine-drinking, Jesus-fans.
On their first day married, your new father gets excommunicated. Some of the kids at school aren’t allowed to play with you anymore, but a lot of your new father’s parishioners—the ones who’ve long since had it with the Pope and the archbishop—are happy to go indie with him, so your new father is a lot of other people’s Father, too.
You can share, you decide. A new father who’s a lot of other people’s Father too is better than no new father at all.
So here you are in this world of newly-indie Catholics, but they’re just as charitable and guilt-ridden as any Catholics in good standing and they’ve got little saint-plaques in their bathrooms.
They all know you’re poor, and they want to help, so you get free stuff. Lots of it. Boxes of oranges and old family cars, strange plastic toys and hand-me-down dresses.
The orthodontist down the street has come to your new father for marital counseling, so pretty soon your mouth is all wired up with hardware you don’t need.
The concert cellist across town has confessed some heinous sin in your living room, so now you’ve got cello lessons and you’re screeching away on that giant instrument, trying to smile your appreciation with your mouth full of metal.
And when the ache in your jaw from the fillings and the neck gear and the head gear and the braces (all applied to baby teeth) finally dulls, there are the dinners.
You hear your parents say you’re poor, but you must not be as poor as you were with your single mom on welfare--that, or Jesus really is showing up in the middle of the night like some fairytale elf, multiplying loaves and fishes--because now there are gads of food everywhere and don’t forget you’re a Christian now and being a Christian means no one turned away. So there’s a full table for dinner every night and not only that but you get invited all over town to eat other people’s food, too.
Picture this: an unchipped plate piled with mashed potatoes and the first slab of ham you have ever seen. It smells so much better than marinated tofu. Your mouth waters. You grab your fork, quickly glance around, but then suddenly your newly indie Catholic host says, “WAIT!”
(Your teeth still hurt a little and you’ve got Vivaldi in your head.)
Your host says: “Father should say grace!”
From the looks on the faces of your host’s kids you know this family never says a damn thing before they dig in, and your new father would never admit it, but you don’t say grace at home either, but now eveyone’s looking at your new father who’s their Father, too, and they extend their hands and you have to set down your fork and join in the circle of held hands and you think surely you’re going to pass out—you want nothing more than that salty pink ham.
“Thank you, Father . . . ” your new father begins.
And you close your eyes and thank God or Jesus or some Saint of Ham for this strange slab of food on your plate that smells like heaven and you pray for this whole grace thing to be over so you can have a bite.
On their first day married, your new father gets excommunicated. Some of the kids at school aren’t allowed to play with you anymore, but a lot of your new father’s parishioners—the ones who’ve long since had it with the Pope and the archbishop—are happy to go indie with him, so your new father is a lot of other people’s Father, too.
You can share, you decide. A new father who’s a lot of other people’s Father too is better than no new father at all.
So here you are in this world of newly-indie Catholics, but they’re just as charitable and guilt-ridden as any Catholics in good standing and they’ve got little saint-plaques in their bathrooms.
They all know you’re poor, and they want to help, so you get free stuff. Lots of it. Boxes of oranges and old family cars, strange plastic toys and hand-me-down dresses.
The orthodontist down the street has come to your new father for marital counseling, so pretty soon your mouth is all wired up with hardware you don’t need.
The concert cellist across town has confessed some heinous sin in your living room, so now you’ve got cello lessons and you’re screeching away on that giant instrument, trying to smile your appreciation with your mouth full of metal.
And when the ache in your jaw from the fillings and the neck gear and the head gear and the braces (all applied to baby teeth) finally dulls, there are the dinners.
You hear your parents say you’re poor, but you must not be as poor as you were with your single mom on welfare--that, or Jesus really is showing up in the middle of the night like some fairytale elf, multiplying loaves and fishes--because now there are gads of food everywhere and don’t forget you’re a Christian now and being a Christian means no one turned away. So there’s a full table for dinner every night and not only that but you get invited all over town to eat other people’s food, too.
Picture this: an unchipped plate piled with mashed potatoes and the first slab of ham you have ever seen. It smells so much better than marinated tofu. Your mouth waters. You grab your fork, quickly glance around, but then suddenly your newly indie Catholic host says, “WAIT!”
(Your teeth still hurt a little and you’ve got Vivaldi in your head.)
Your host says: “Father should say grace!”
From the looks on the faces of your host’s kids you know this family never says a damn thing before they dig in, and your new father would never admit it, but you don’t say grace at home either, but now eveyone’s looking at your new father who’s their Father, too, and they extend their hands and you have to set down your fork and join in the circle of held hands and you think surely you’re going to pass out—you want nothing more than that salty pink ham.
“Thank you, Father . . . ” your new father begins.
And you close your eyes and thank God or Jesus or some Saint of Ham for this strange slab of food on your plate that smells like heaven and you pray for this whole grace thing to be over so you can have a bite.
posted by Contact at 11:20 PM
2 Comments:
I can't believe nobody commented on this post. This is hilarious! Especially for recovering Catholics. I am going to send the link to a friend of mine who has a blog. He BECAME a Catholic. Problem is he doesn't understand REAL Catholics.Its like ethnicity, And every family has their way of doing it.
By the way I read your How to be Famous Writer Before Dead twice. I finally made it to your blog. I wanted to see your first post as I have a blog 3 months old. I'm into the weird stuff.
You have an inspiring spirit. I hope to visit often. Thanks Ariel.
Of course you are the Magicians fairy, right?
Hysterical!
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