Alissa Randa
Fiction Writing

     "In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit."
     We looked like little wedding couples. Veiled girls in lacy white dresses and boys in small-scale navy colored suits. Already almost talked like married couples. "Ewwwwwe. I don't want to sit by Spencer. Can't I sit in the next pew?"
     Stained glass filled the window panes. Didn't make out any Jesus or saint images in those nebulous but striking sheets of textured glass. Guess our church was too cheap to invest in those kind. Maybe you were supposed to make pictures of your own like on a cloudy day. It was so easy to just stare at the walls instead of the altar. It was so easy to paste your eyes onto the windows and lose your train of thought...
     "Glory be to God in the highest and peace to His people on earth. Lord God, heavenly King, almighty God and Father..."
     Alice's mother just had to decide on what length of dresses we would wear. It was the standard only-child scenario. Alice always got her way. Once in first grade, I had to play double roles in "The Gingerbread Man" because Alice, who ironically played the pig, was scared to perform in front of people. Talk about early childhood improv. Alice is the same girl who stole my Legos in kindergarten. Three years later I still held a grudge. Her short little legs did look pretty cute with the short dress, I suppose.
     "Holy, holy, holy. Lord God Almighty..."
     Michaela was a happy girl. She was my best friend in kindergarten. Of course about the only requirement for being a best friend was if you liked the same toys. During rainy-day recesses we'd get out the ol' Raggedy Ann and Andy kitchen set, which included a tea pot, four dainty teacups, four dinner plates and three-and-a-half sets of "silverware" (we lost some of the pieces somewhere along the line). We'd pretend to scoop up casseroles like our mothers did onto the ivory-colored plates. Best-friend Michaela had a giggling problem, however. First Communion was a big-time serious event and here she was laughing at anything and everything-- the incense burning on the altar, the altar boys, the fact that we were going to get to taste alcohol. She was a happy girl, but not always at the right times. Mom told me not to look at her in church otherwise I'd start laughing, too. I could tell Father really didn't like it. He wasn't laughing at all.
     "This is the Word of the Lord."
     "Thanks be to God."
     Father Michael needed to loosen up. At least crack a smile every once in awhile. It was hard not to like him, though--especially later on in life, say the teen years. When I was
mature enough my mother introduced me to the term, "Father What a Waste." You could look deeply into Father Michael's brown eyes just like the stained-glass windows that framed the aisles. They weren't just ordinary brown eyes. They were filled with specks of chocolate, mocha, latte, espresso.
     "This is the Gospel, the Good News of the Lord."
     "Praise to you Lord, Jesus Christ."
     Michael, not the Archangel Michael--that's for sure, insisted on squirming. Kneeling piously was everyone except Michael, the dark-haired cutie. His eyelashes were the kind that girls only dreamed of. He always hung out with the girls in our class. He was the shy guy of the class. He was the only boy who didn't explicitly show his "love" for another girl. He didn't have a "black book" or try to kiss anyone or send "love letters." He was a "nice boy", as Mom says, but sometimes a little ornery. Praying kneelers they were called. You'd think they'd have some religious term, but they didn't. Kneelers. First Communion was supposed to be the highlight of a Catholic child's life and here Michael was bouncing. He was bouncing on the kneeler, the object on which one is supposed to show his or her faith.
     "Take this and eat it. This is my body and shall be given up for you."
     I just knew Laura was going to set her newly-permed hair on fire. The entire St. Joseph's third grade class was waiting for the moment. I'm sure she was thinking, "just like in practice. Just hold the candle away from my face and it won't be a problem." I think the boys teased her for about a month. I would have but she was my best friend (I dropped Michaela in second grade; I guess Barbies were more important to me--Laura had all the cool accessories).  "Frizzyhead," they'd call her. Laura never got a perm again until she started using taming hair products (ca. junior high). With Laura standing at the altar, her veil just about reached out into the congregation.
     "Take this and drink it. This is my blood and shall be given up for you."
     It's a real good thing Craig had a jacket on. I always managed to sit behind him in the classroom. Loved those desks. Now they really only seem like doll house desks that you could pick up with your little finger. They were huge at the time and decked out with a special groove for your pencil, a nice "bowl" for your bottom side, a large writing surface and a cool safe-like storage unit under the seat. I lost count of the number of times Craig had to reach down and get supplies out of his storage unit. Only he wouldn't just reach down. He had to get himself out of the seat and sit on the floor, maneuver his knees underneath him and bend. Bend. Bend. Never tucked his shirt in. As far as we girls gathered, he never wore underwear, at least any that was high enough to cover what we really didn't need or want to see in third grade. We would have been more than happy to see stripes of royal blue and school bus yellow on an elastic band rather than
what we saw. Genuflection would have been quite a show if it hadn't been for the jacket.
     "Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven..."
     Joey was wearing a belt like any proper First Communicant boy. He often liked to wear belts. His dad bought him one of those corny leather belts with the wearer's name engraved on the back. "J O E Y" it said in serifed block letters. Not something I'd want to wear on my belt, even if it had my name instead. I was happy with my stretchy Smurf belt. Joey had a proneness to buckle his belt a bit too tight. We never could read "J O E Y" because the belt surface was horizontal to the floor, engraved side up. This belt-tightening tendency emphasized his bottom. I just thought he had a pretty rounded bottom at the time. Later on, I realized he had what is referred to as a "bubble butt." He looked nice at Mass, his belt not being visible.
     "Peace be with you."
     "And also with you."
     Damon was the picture of a young marine in his tiny suit. Who knows what he's doing now. Went to Juco for a year or two and got a job, I think. Never did go into the armed forces, though. His slight underbite formed a strong jawline and the nearly shaven head would have made any officer proud. You could tell he was well behaved by what he ate at lunch time. His mother would pack him health foods: rice cakes, bland-colored pastes, dry crackers and raw vegetables. No grumbles came from Damon at the table. Disciplined Damon paid attention to Father pretty well despite other distractions.
     "I am not worthy to receive You, but only say the word and I shall be healed."
     He wasn't that terrible of a guy to sit next to. Spencer really was an OK classmate for a boy. He had a crush on me for the longest time, but my stomach churned every time I thought about the opposite sex. Teacher took a class photo, a polaroid, and posted it on the bulletin board in our quaint classroom. Mrs. Simpson always had to use grungy burlap to cover the boards. Then she'd border the burlap with scalloped-edge cardstock, usually the tacky motifed ones. I never understood her decorative reasoning. The class must have held their attention somewhere else in the room or I never would have done what I did. Took a thumbtack to Spencer's face in the photo. It wasn't just once. A precise puncture again and again. I wasn't a hateful child; I just hated him taking a liking to me. He sat so innocently next to me in the wooden pew cushioned with turquoise burlap-like material, naive to what I had done to him a year before.
     "Body and blood of Christ."
     "Amen."
     The wafer went onto my tongue. Don't gag. Just don't gag. Reminds me of when Mom packed me tuna fish sandwiches on Fridays. We never ate fish except for Lent. Our family didn't even like
fish. It was the Catholic thing to do. I'd settle for a peanut butter sandwich, please, or how about some noodle soup? The wet tuna automatically sets off that gagging mechanism in the body. The unleavened wheat wafer was alright, but then Father had to go and dip it in that wine. "I can't believe some people drink this and like it," I thought at the time. "And keep drinking it more and more. They get happier and happier. I'm never, ever going to drink wine again. Never."
     So this is the third Holy Sacrament--Holy Eucharist. Are we supposed to be feeling something extraordinarily meaningful? Is something wrong with me--'cause I'm not feeling much anything else but a wine-soaked piece of bread in my mouth. I swallowed the body of Christ as fast I could, as was instructed, and used my saliva to wash down any of the bitter wine aftertaste. You can't help but be shallow when you're in third grade. Since then I've tried to dig a little deeper; I have failed.

     "Body of Christ."
     "Amen."
     Every morning we had Mass before school started. It was in fifth grade when I dropped my host in the aisle. I took communion by hand and not by mouth; I didn't want Father practically putting his hand in my mouth. I couldn't remember what we were told to do if our piece of unleavened bread fell to the ground. I didn't think it was proper to leave it or, heaven forbid, pick it up and throw it away. I had picked candy off of the floor before; how bad can this be? I stood there for what seemed minutes. It couldn't have been too long because the next communicant didn't pass me along the dark carpeted path. I knew my teacher was watching me. I scooped up the host and popped it in my mouth. Didn't taste different but I felt different. Not spiritually. Embarrassment was more like it. "You did the right thing" Miss Bolin told me. I knew she thought I had done the deed because I was a good Catholic. I did the deed because I was an obedient child.
     "Body of Christ."
     "Amen."
     I was in the McPherson Arts Council Children's Choir in my fifth and six grade years. We were pretty good. Don't have any idea how I made it in. We were scheduled to perform at an evening service at the Free Methodist church in the south part of town. I had never been to another church besides a funeral at the Lutheran church, which didn't seem all that much different than a Catholic one. This one seemed a bit psycho to me. The preacher guy was telling us to pull out our Bibles and flip to different references. I hardly knew the Bible. I just knew what we were supposed to know. I had the notion that the choir was going to sing and that was it. Next thing I knew preacher guy was having communion and inviting everyone to partake in these little Chiclet-like cubes of wheat that were served on gold plates. I
passed the tray on. I looked to my other Catholic friends and they, too, appeared scared. I was an obedient Catholic child.
     "Body of Christ."
     "Amen."
     Several years ago our family moved to another city--well, town. This church was noted for its sweetened bread. First time I received communion at St. Teresa's I reflected back to my First Communion intake of the bread, trying not to gag. Church there was a lot more open. It was lighter. Father David told us that it was OK to question your faith. I had never been given that privilege. I had really never wanted that privilege. I was an obedient Catholic child.
     "Body of Christ."
     "Amen."
     I was an obedient Catholic child. I wouldn't call myself a rebel now, but I do question things. I question everything. Probably a cynic. Because I question so many things, I had to question my faith. Who knows, maybe I'll come around again. "I should have sent you to a Catholic college," Mom half-jokingly, half-seriously tells me. Seldomly I visit stained-glass cathedrals or expose myself to pews with kneelers. The once-memorized liturgy of the Mass quickly fades from my mind. And no longer to I partake in the Holy Eucharist. Not because of taste or texture. Not because I'm rebelling. Not because of my disbelief. I'm a former communicant because I am not worthy to participate. Because I'm unable to believe I'm not worthy to be among the believers in the communion line.
     You can't help but be shallow when you're in third grade. When you're an adult you don't want to be shallow.
     "Mass has ended. Go in peace to love and serve the Lord."
     "Thanks be to God."