My family came from the Catholic tradition and, as is so often the case, the elder women of the family were the most devout. They would tell us stories about saints and martyrs, about people who were noble and sacrificed themselves for God and mankind. I was fascinated by these stories and my interest in God—in dedicating myself to serving God—manifested at an early age with the determination to become a nun. To humor me, my mother even made a nun’s habit for me. More than anything this highlighted the character of my mother in those days—that despite our penury, despite her marital and other problems, she always tried to nourish the creative propensities of my sister and myself by allowing our dreams and fantasies to take flight.
I don’t have a specific memory of Holy Communion, but I remember attending church with a group of young children where we were asked to confess our sins before God and His representative, the priest. Since I could not remember committing any sins, when I entered the smoothly-polished confession booth I frankly told the priest I had nothing to confess. To my dismay he sternly assured me that each of us has sins to confess and I was certainly no different. So in my desire to be obedient, I made up a few perceived ‘sins.’ It didn’t occur to me at the time that now I had actually committed the sin of untruth, but I was far more worried about displeasing the priest.