Me, warrior for Christ
Circa 1982 – Monsignor Mullen and
a newly minted Warrior For Christ.
This is what I remember about my confirmation:
- I loved my corduroy blazer. I really did. Cinched slightly at the waist, I felt it gave me the ladylike curve that I was sorely lacking
- The church basement. Sacred Heart Church, Grundy Center, Iowa. I spent a large chunk of my pre-pubescent life in that basement. Attending CCD, having donuts after the first mass of every month, sitting through funeral receptions for a succession of deceased grandparents.
- My confirmation name: Veronica. Oh, how I loved that name, the name of my patron saint. We were to choose a PS who we admired for their heroism and so they would help us with their constant prayers. I, on the other hand, specifically chose mine because I thought it sounded sexy, not because St. Veronica risked it all to wipe the face of Jesus Christ on his death march.
- Being told at the ceremony that at some magical moment, as a supernatural result of wearing the felted sash I made in combination with oil being ritualistically smeared across my forehead, that I had become a:
Yep. I was going to make a fine Catholic.