OT - Story - Bad in Church

Ever since I can remember, I have have behaved badly in church. Not
"steal from the collection plate bad," which I know is a one-way and
permanent ticket to Hell, but more like what comedian Kathy Griffin
calls "the church giggles." The more I know that I need to behave,
the harder it is for me to keep a straight face. Even if I am truly
moved by the service, and my heart is aching with pain, I'm still
smirking on the outside.

I remember being a little girl, going to Mass before Vatican II. My
mother took great pride in dressing my sister and me like identical
little angels, with matching dresses, lace tights, gloves, and little
white mantillas. For those who aren't Catholic or have forgotten,
all women used to have to cover their heads at Mass before Vatican
II. Catholic women carried a little round lace doily called a
mantilla in their purses, in case there was some reason an unexpected
Mass popped up. This was also the same period of time during which
the nuns taught us that if we saw someone dying, we weren't to call
911 or administer first aid, we were supposed to get a bit of water
and baptize the poor slob, just in case they were still carrying
around some original sin, and would go off to Hell if they croaked.
Once the amateur emergency baptism was over, then it was okay to call
911. (BTW, when the nuns tell you that you can use any ordinary water
in these impromptu baptisms, asking if spit is okay to use is NOT a
good idea)

Anyway, back to my being a little kid, all dressed up for church.
Mom would drag all three of us to Mass, which had to have been the
low point of her week. We three kids are only 22 months apart,
meaning she had three babies at the same time. But she was a good
Catholic mother, as evidenced by the three kids in less than two
years thing, and Mass was absolutely manditory. Only being on one's
deathbed was a proper excuse, and even that was shaky - if you didn't
actually die, you had to confess your sin of missing Mass. As the
oldest, (nominally, anyway), I was supposed to set the proper tone of
behavior for my younger siblings. Bad move, Mom.

As I mentioned before, women and girls always had a mantilla to wear
at church. This scrap of lace provided many opportunities to enjoy
onesself, as long as I was out of Mom's arm's reach. (Usually safe
because she would be holding my baby sister and following the Mass in
Latin) I could stick my tongue through the little holes in the lace,
pull it tightly over the skin on my arm and make denty floral
designs, or worst (best) of all, make the mantilla fly and flutter
like a kite. I had a little purse for church, which held a dime for
the collection plate, a little white plastic rosary, and a tiny
Missalette, a book which held the readings for each Mass. (Catholics
don't need them any longer. They've been replaced by a cheap
magazine on newsprint)

The rosary also offered significant opportunities for entertainment.
The beads made a fun noise when whacked against the back of the pew,
and could be woven between one's fingers. You could bother your
little brother and convince him to have a rosary fight with his
rosary. That was dangerous, because if caught, it meant an instant
and severe spanking when we left church. The spanking was usually
reserved for when we got home. The formulas was: the more fun you
had at Mass, the worse the spanking when you got home.

As I got older, I went to Sunday School, which was run by mean and
jaded old nuns, who kept a sharp eye on us "public school children."
We soon learned that being a public school child was only a half step
away from Hell, and that we were going to spend billions of years in
Purgatory making up for the sin of not attending Parochial school
like good children. Like we had a choice in those days. You went to
whichever school your parents said you went to. In my case, there
was a school three doors down from the house, and it cost nothing.
End of discussion.

Still, even the presence of the fearsome Sister Joanice couldn't keep
me in line. I could always find some reason to giggle, which always
turned into a full fledged laugh as soon as I tried to stifle it.
Sister Joanice soon learned to sit me at the end of a pew, so I was
always within smacking distance. It didn't help. Kathleen, who was
always so incredibly well behaved in school (I never got a detention,
suspension or even had to stay after in my whole time in school),
could never be counted on to keep a straight face during the Mass.
(BTW, Kathleen is my name only when my parents are speaking or when
I'm bad. I'm Kathy the rest of the time)

Fortunately for me, we Sunday School children were marched over to
the 9:00 a.m. Mass every week to be supervised by Sister
Whoever-we-had-that-year, letting our parents off the hook. Even the
most sharp eyed sister was easier than my mother, because Sister had
35 or so of us to watch, and Mom only had three - and she knew which
one was going to act up. I still misbehaved, but a few whacks on the
back of the head was infinitely better than the heavy duty spanking
and week's worth of "why can't you behave in Church" lectures I was
sure to get from my parents. Besides, it was way more fun to go to
Mass with one's friends, public school children all, who knew we
already had one foot in Hell and the other on a banana peel, and not
much to lose.

BTW, our badness was limited to giggling and playing wiht our
rosaries and mantillas. We had all heard the story about the kid who
took his collection plate dime and bought a donut with it, but that
was too terrible to even imagine. I suspected that God struck him
down the moment he left the donut shop for spending His dime. In our
minds, there were no worse sins than that.

Years passed, Sunday School was renamed CCD, and we only went to Mass
once a month on a weekday. This was a double rip-off, because it
meant we had to go to church on Sunday with our mother, and _again_
on Wednesday with Sister. So incredibly unfair, yet bringing up the
argument with my mother yielded nothing more than a smack on the back
of the head.

In case you haven't guessed yet, my religious education allowed me to
retain only two things: memorizing the Baltimore Catechism (a book
of questions and answers that was supposed to answer all questions of
faith), and getting smacked by one adult or another. I never went
home to report that I had been smacked by a teacher or a nun, because
in those days, that was just asking for another spanking: after all,
if you weren't bad, they wouldn't have hit you. That didn't exactly
explain the beating I got for having a broken leg (it looked really
bad in line while we children were in processional) or the beating
the Romano brothers got for being twins and having only one set of
Godparents. As I said, these nuns were the bitter and worn out ones,
jaded after a lifetime of molding young heathens into good Catholic
adults, all for no pay and little credit.

I'm an adult now (or so they tell me), but old habits die hard. I
still cannot go to Mass without giggling. One time it was the little
boy who pulled down his pants to scratch his butt during the
communion prayer (which I would have missed if I had been properly
devout and had my eyes shut and my mind on the prayer). Then there
were the kids who were supposed to be holding brooms to represent the
stable in Bethlehem, and ended up having a broom fight in the middle
of Christmas Mass. (other people were horrified. I was holding my
sides with laughter) Or the time that a visiting priest wore white
sandals with his vestments during a warm summer Mass. You name a
Mass, I can find some reason to laugh.

Nowadays, there are no nuns to hit me: the only nuns I know are very
sweet elderly women who are my friends. There are no more mantillas,
and I only use a rosary at home, when I want to pray and meditate in
silence. But now there is Amanda, who is every bit as sharp-eyed and
merciless as my mother. I cannot count the number of times I've
walked back to the car, head bowed, fighting a smile off my lips as
Manda lectured me. "This is God's House! Can't you show even a
little respect? It's only an hour a week, and you can't behave for
even that long?"

Nope. Sorry, I can't. I can only hope that God will forgive my
laughter, or I'll be spending zillions of years working off my
giggles in Purgatory. I think I'll be okay, though. I'm quite sure
He has a sense of humor. He made me, after all; and that was the
first Q&A in the Baltimore Catechism. ("Who made me? God made me.")
If making me isn't proof of a bizarre sense of humor, I don't know
what is. As long as we don't get to _why_ God made me, I'm totally
in the clear. Unfortunately, that sticky "why" question is the second
one in the Catechism, and "to giggle and look for funny things during
Mass" isn't exactly the answer we learned.

I'm glad I'm not a Protestant, though. I hear that they spend
_hours_ at their service, and that a head bowed, eyes closed prayer
can last twenty minutes or more. I can see them tossing me out on my
hell-bound behind during the very first service. At least I can go
to confession (oops, that's "Rite of Reconciliation" these days) and
wipe some of the giggles off my black soul.

Kathy N-V, who finds life endlessly amusing

ROFLOLPIMP......you know, Kathy...I'm a Protestant (of sorts...i think....) and I
have the giggles problem too. We also get smacks on the back of the head.
--
Jalynne - Keeper of the Quilt for ME club list
Queen Gypsy (snail mail available upon request)
see what i've been up to at www.100megsfree4.com/jalynne

"Kathy N-V" wrote in message
. giganews.com...
Ever since I can remember, I have have behaved badly in church. Not
"steal from the collection plate bad," which I know is a one-way and
permanent ticket to Hell, but more like what comedian Kathy Griffin
calls "the church giggles." The more I know that I need to behave,
the harder it is for me to keep a straight face. Even if I am truly
moved by the service, and my heart is aching with pain, I'm still
smirking on the outside.

I remember being a little girl, going to Mass before Vatican II. My
mother took great pride in dressing my sister and me like identical
little angels, with matching dresses, lace tights, gloves, and little
white mantillas. For those who aren't Catholic or have forgotten,
all women used to have to cover their heads at Mass before Vatican
II. Catholic women carried a little round lace doily called a
mantilla in their purses, in case there was some reason an unexpected
Mass popped up. This was also the same period of time during which
the nuns taught us that if we saw someone dying, we weren't to call
911 or administer first aid, we were supposed to get a bit of water
and baptize the poor slob, just in case they were still carrying
around some original sin, and would go off to Hell if they croaked.
Once the amateur emergency baptism was over, then it was okay to call
911. (BTW, when the nuns tell you that you can use any ordinary water
in these impromptu baptisms, asking if spit is okay to use is NOT a
good idea)

Anyway, back to my being a little kid, all dressed up for church.
Mom would drag all three of us to Mass, which had to have been the
low point of her week. We three kids are only 22 months apart,
meaning she had three babies at the same time. But she was a good
Catholic mother, as evidenced by the three kids in less than two
years thing, and Mass was absolutely manditory. Only being on one's
deathbed was a proper excuse, and even that was shaky - if you didn't
actually die, you had to confess your sin of missing Mass. As the
oldest, (nominally, anyway), I was supposed to set the proper tone of
behavior for my younger siblings. Bad move, Mom.

As I mentioned before, women and girls always had a mantilla to wear
at church. This scrap of lace provided many opportunities to enjoy
onesself, as long as I was out of Mom's arm's reach. (Usually safe
because she would be holding my baby sister and following the Mass in
Latin) I could stick my tongue through the little holes in the lace,
pull it tightly over the skin on my arm and make denty floral
designs, or worst (best) of all, make the mantilla fly and flutter
like a kite. I had a little purse for church, which held a dime for
the collection plate, a little white plastic rosary, and a tiny
Missalette, a book which held the readings for each Mass. (Catholics
don't need them any longer. They've been replaced by a cheap
magazine on newsprint)

The rosary also offered significant opportunities for entertainment.
The beads made a fun noise when whacked against the back of the pew,
and could be woven between one's fingers. You could bother your
little brother and convince him to have a rosary fight with his
rosary. That was dangerous, because if caught, it meant an instant
and severe spanking when we left church. The spanking was usually
reserved for when we got home. The formulas was: the more fun you
had at Mass, the worse the spanking when you got home.

As I got older, I went to Sunday School, which was run by mean and
jaded old nuns, who kept a sharp eye on us "public school children."
We soon learned that being a public school child was only a half step
away from Hell, and that we were going to spend billions of years in
Purgatory making up for the sin of not attending Parochial school
like good children. Like we had a choice in those days. You went to
whichever school your parents said you went to. In my case, there
was a school three doors down from the house, and it cost nothing.
End of discussion.

Still, even the presence of the fearsome Sister Joanice couldn't keep
me in line. I could always find some reason to giggle, which always
turned into a full fledged laugh as soon as I tried to stifle it.
Sister Joanice soon learned to sit me at the end of a pew, so I was
always within smacking distance. It didn't help. Kathleen, who was
always so incredibly well behaved in school (I never got a detention,
suspension or even had to stay after in my whole time in school),
could never be counted on to keep a straight face during the Mass.
(BTW, Kathleen is my name only when my parents are speaking or when
I'm bad. I'm Kathy the rest of the time)

Fortunately for me, we Sunday School children were marched over to
the 9:00 a.m. Mass every week to be supervised by Sister
Whoever-we-had-that-year, letting our parents off the hook. Even the
most sharp eyed sister was easier than my mother, because Sister had
35 or so of us to watch, and Mom only had three - and she knew which
one was going to act up. I still misbehaved, but a few whacks on the
back of the head was infinitely better than the heavy duty spanking
and week's worth of "why can't you behave in Church" lectures I was
sure to get from my parents. Besides, it was way more fun to go to
Mass with one's friends, public school children all, who knew we
already had one foot in Hell and the other on a banana peel, and not
much to lose.

BTW, our badness was limited to giggling and playing wiht our
rosaries and mantillas. We had all heard the story about the kid who
took his collection plate dime and bought a donut with it, but that
was too terrible to even imagine. I suspected that God struck him
down the moment he left the donut shop for spending His dime. In our
minds, there were no worse sins than that.

Years passed, Sunday School was renamed CCD, and we only went to Mass
once a month on a weekday. This was a double rip-off, because it
meant we had to go to church on Sunday with our mother, and _again_
on Wednesday with Sister. So incredibly unfair, yet bringing up the
argument with my mother yielded nothing more than a smack on the back
of the head.

In case you haven't guessed yet, my religious education allowed me to
retain only two things: memorizing the Baltimore Catechism (a book
of questions and answers that was supposed to answer all questions of
faith), and getting smacked by one adult or another. I never went
home to report that I had been smacked by a teacher or a nun, because
in those days, that was just asking for another spanking: after all,
if you weren't bad, they wouldn't have hit you. That didn't exactly
explain the beating I got for having a broken leg (it looked really
bad in line while we children were in processional) or the beating
the Romano brothers got for being twins and having only one set of
Godparents. As I said, these nuns were the bitter and worn out ones,
jaded after a lifetime of molding young heathens into good Catholic
adults, all for no pay and little credit.

I'm an adult now (or so they tell me), but old habits die hard. I
still cannot go to Mass without giggling. One time it was the little
boy who pulled down his pants to scratch his butt during the
communion prayer (which I would have missed if I had been properly
devout and had my eyes shut and my mind on the prayer). Then there
were the kids who were supposed to be holding brooms to represent the
stable in Bethlehem, and ended up having a broom fight in the middle
of Christmas Mass. (other people were horrified. I was holding my
sides with laughter) Or the time that a visiting priest wore white
sandals with his vestments during a warm summer Mass. You name a
Mass, I can find some reason to laugh.

Nowadays, there are no nuns to hit me: the only nuns I know are very
sweet elderly women who are my friends. There are no more mantillas,
and I only use a rosary at home, when I want to pray and meditate in
silence. But now there is Amanda, who is every bit as sharp-eyed and
merciless as my mother. I cannot count the number of times I've
walked back to the car, head bowed, fighting a smile off my lips as
Manda lectured me. "This is God's House! Can't you show even a
little respect? It's only an hour a week, and you can't behave for
even that long?"

Nope. Sorry, I can't. I can only hope that God will forgive my
laughter, or I'll be spending zillions of years working off my
giggles in Purgatory. I think I'll be okay, though. I'm quite sure
He has a sense of humor. He made me, after all; and that was the
first Q&A in the Baltimore Catechism. ("Who made me? God made me.")
If making me isn't proof of a bizarre sense of humor, I don't know
what is. As long as we don't get to _why_ God made me, I'm totally
in the clear. Unfortunately, that sticky "why" question is the second
one in the Catechism, and "to giggle and look for funny things during
Mass" isn't exactly the answer we learned.

I'm glad I'm not a Protestant, though. I hear that they spend
_hours_ at their service, and that a head bowed, eyes closed prayer
can last twenty minutes or more. I can see them tossing me out on my
hell-bound behind during the very first service. At least I can go
to confession (oops, that's "Rite of Reconciliation" these days) and
wipe some of the giggles off my black soul.

Kathy N-V, who finds life endlessly amusing

Hi,
Thank you for the lovely story!! Yours always give me pleasure.

On the serious side I was struck by the abuse permitted, even
sanctioned. And discrimination against public school Catholics. But
then "spanking" was much more socially accepted back in the day.
I'm gald you maintained your spirited sense of humor.
Lilyflower

Kath,

Visit a Methodist church and appreciate the difference! It's still God's
house. Just a little bit less serious (and violent, although I do recall my
brother hitting me across the nose with a bible during services!)



"Kathy N-V" wrote in message
. giganews.com...
Ever since I can remember, I have have behaved badly in church. Not
"steal from the collection plate bad," which I know is a one-way and
permanent ticket to Hell, but more like what comedian Kathy Griffin
calls "the church giggles." The more I know that I need to behave,
the harder it is for me to keep a straight face. Even if I am truly
moved by the service, and my heart is aching with pain, I'm still
smirking on the outside.

I remember being a little girl, going to Mass before Vatican II. My
mother took great pride in dressing my sister and me like identical
little angels, with matching dresses, lace tights, gloves, and little
white mantillas. For those who aren't Catholic or have forgotten,
all women used to have to cover their heads at Mass before Vatican
II. Catholic women carried a little round lace doily called a
mantilla in their purses, in case there was some reason an unexpected
Mass popped up. This was also the same period of time during which
the nuns taught us that if we saw someone dying, we weren't to call
911 or administer first aid, we were supposed to get a bit of water
and baptize the poor slob, just in case they were still carrying
around some original sin, and would go off to Hell if they croaked.
Once the amateur emergency baptism was over, then it was okay to call
911. (BTW, when the nuns tell you that you can use any ordinary water
in these impromptu baptisms, asking if spit is okay to use is NOT a
good idea)

Anyway, back to my being a little kid, all dressed up for church.
Mom would drag all three of us to Mass, which had to have been the
low point of her week. We three kids are only 22 months apart,
meaning she had three babies at the same time. But she was a good
Catholic mother, as evidenced by the three kids in less than two
years thing, and Mass was absolutely manditory. Only being on one's
deathbed was a proper excuse, and even that was shaky - if you didn't
actually die, you had to confess your sin of missing Mass. As the
oldest, (nominally, anyway), I was supposed to set the proper tone of
behavior for my younger siblings. Bad move, Mom.

As I mentioned before, women and girls always had a mantilla to wear
at church. This scrap of lace provided many opportunities to enjoy
onesself, as long as I was out of Mom's arm's reach. (Usually safe
because she would be holding my baby sister and following the Mass in
Latin) I could stick my tongue through the little holes in the lace,
pull it tightly over the skin on my arm and make denty floral
designs, or worst (best) of all, make the mantilla fly and flutter
like a kite. I had a little purse for church, which held a dime for
the collection plate, a little white plastic rosary, and a tiny
Missalette, a book which held the readings for each Mass. (Catholics
don't need them any longer. They've been replaced by a cheap
magazine on newsprint)

The rosary also offered significant opportunities for entertainment.
The beads made a fun noise when whacked against the back of the pew,
and could be woven between one's fingers. You could bother your
little brother and convince him to have a rosary fight with his
rosary. That was dangerous, because if caught, it meant an instant
and severe spanking when we left church. The spanking was usually
reserved for when we got home. The formulas was: the more fun you
had at Mass, the worse the spanking when you got home.

As I got older, I went to Sunday School, which was run by mean and
jaded old nuns, who kept a sharp eye on us "public school children."
We soon learned that being a public school child was only a half step
away from Hell, and that we were going to spend billions of years in
Purgatory making up for the sin of not attending Parochial school
like good children. Like we had a choice in those days. You went to
whichever school your parents said you went to. In my case, there
was a school three doors down from the house, and it cost nothing.
End of discussion.

Still, even the presence of the fearsome Sister Joanice couldn't keep
me in line. I could always find some reason to giggle, which always
turned into a full fledged laugh as soon as I tried to stifle it.
Sister Joanice soon learned to sit me at the end of a pew, so I was
always within smacking distance. It didn't help. Kathleen, who was
always so incredibly well behaved in school (I never got a detention,
suspension or even had to stay after in my whole time in school),
could never be counted on to keep a straight face during the Mass.
(BTW, Kathleen is my name only when my parents are speaking or when
I'm bad. I'm Kathy the rest of the time)

Fortunately for me, we Sunday School children were marched over to
the 9:00 a.m. Mass every week to be supervised by Sister
Whoever-we-had-that-year, letting our parents off the hook. Even the
most sharp eyed sister was easier than my mother, because Sister had
35 or so of us to watch, and Mom only had three - and she knew which
one was going to act up. I still misbehaved, but a few whacks on the
back of the head was infinitely better than the heavy duty spanking
and week's worth of "why can't you behave in Church" lectures I was
sure to get from my parents. Besides, it was way more fun to go to
Mass with one's friends, public school children all, who knew we
already had one foot in Hell and the other on a banana peel, and not
much to lose.

BTW, our badness was limited to giggling and playing wiht our
rosaries and mantillas. We had all heard the story about the kid who
took his collection plate dime and bought a donut with it, but that
was too terrible to even imagine. I suspected that God struck him
down the moment he left the donut shop for spending His dime. In our
minds, there were no worse sins than that.

Years passed, Sunday School was renamed CCD, and we only went to Mass
once a month on a weekday. This was a double rip-off, because it
meant we had to go to church on Sunday with our mother, and _again_
on Wednesday with Sister. So incredibly unfair, yet bringing up the
argument with my mother yielded nothing more than a smack on the back
of the head.

In case you haven't guessed yet, my religious education allowed me to
retain only two things: memorizing the Baltimore Catechism (a book
of questions and answers that was supposed to answer all questions of
faith), and getting smacked by one adult or another. I never went
home to report that I had been smacked by a teacher or a nun, because
in those days, that was just asking for another spanking: after all,
if you weren't bad, they wouldn't have hit you. That didn't exactly
explain the beating I got for having a broken leg (it looked really
bad in line while we children were in processional) or the beating
the Romano brothers got for being twins and having only one set of
Godparents. As I said, these nuns were the bitter and worn out ones,
jaded after a lifetime of molding young heathens into good Catholic
adults, all for no pay and little credit.

I'm an adult now (or so they tell me), but old habits die hard. I
still cannot go to Mass without giggling. One time it was the little
boy who pulled down his pants to scratch his butt during the
communion prayer (which I would have missed if I had been properly
devout and had my eyes shut and my mind on the prayer). Then there
were the kids who were supposed to be holding brooms to represent the
stable in Bethlehem, and ended up having a broom fight in the middle
of Christmas Mass. (other people were horrified. I was holding my
sides with laughter) Or the time that a visiting priest wore white
sandals with his vestments during a warm summer Mass. You name a
Mass, I can find some reason to laugh.

Nowadays, there are no nuns to hit me: the only nuns I know are very
sweet elderly women who are my friends. There are no more mantillas,
and I only use a rosary at home, when I want to pray and meditate in
silence. But now there is Amanda, who is every bit as sharp-eyed and
merciless as my mother. I cannot count the number of times I've
walked back to the car, head bowed, fighting a smile off my lips as
Manda lectured me. "This is God's House! Can't you show even a
little respect? It's only an hour a week, and you can't behave for
even that long?"

Nope. Sorry, I can't. I can only hope that God will forgive my
laughter, or I'll be spending zillions of years working off my
giggles in Purgatory. I think I'll be okay, though. I'm quite sure
He has a sense of humor. He made me, after all; and that was the
first Q&A in the Baltimore Catechism. ("Who made me? God made me.")
If making me isn't proof of a bizarre sense of humor, I don't know
what is. As long as we don't get to _why_ God made me, I'm totally
in the clear. Unfortunately, that sticky "why" question is the second
one in the Catechism, and "to giggle and look for funny things during
Mass" isn't exactly the answer we learned.

I'm glad I'm not a Protestant, though. I hear that they spend
_hours_ at their service, and that a head bowed, eyes closed prayer
can last twenty minutes or more. I can see them tossing me out on my
hell-bound behind during the very first service. At least I can go
to confession (oops, that's "Rite of Reconciliation" these days) and
wipe some of the giggles off my black soul.

Kathy N-V, who finds life endlessly amusing

On Mon, 13 Dec 2004 3:44:24 -0500, Mystified One wrote
(in message
):

Kath,

Visit a Methodist church and appreciate the difference! It's still God's
house. Just a little bit less serious (and violent, although I do recall my
brother hitting me across the nose with a bible during services!)


It's not like that nowadays! It was violent back in the day, but all
the nuns and such I know now are very sweet and kind women. No one
gets hit any longer, and nuns don't even carry rulers anymore.

The spanking thing was culturally appropriate at the time. Even now,
I read that most parents spank their children for discipline. It's
just that no one hits anyone in our house, so it seems so much larger
than life in retrospect. We're mostly talking about a smack or two
on the bum. Back when I was a kid, everyone I knew got spanked.

Things change, fortunately. Except for my laughing in church - I
don't think that will ever change.

Kathy N-V

Kathy N-V, who finds life endlessly amusing

well, thank God for that!!

There's nothing sweeter to hear than the sound of a little child laughing, at
least thats how I find it as a parent/adult person. I'm going with the thought
that the Great Parent finds it even more precious and delightful. I got taught
in sunday School that we peeples were made because God was bored and lonely all
alone in the everything. Wouldn't it be more likely to ease boredom and
loneliness with laughter than with a bunch of shuteyed mumbling?
Sarajane

Sarajane's Polymer Clay Gallery
http://www.polyclay.com

On Mon, 13 Dec 2004 10:27:05 -0500, Sjpolyclay wrote
(in message ):

Kathy N-V, who finds life endlessly amusing

well, thank God for that!!

There's nothing sweeter to hear than the sound of a little child laughing, at
least thats how I find it as a parent/adult person. I'm going with the
thought
that the Great Parent finds it even more precious and delightful. I got
taught
in sunday School that we peeples were made because God was bored and lonely
all
alone in the everything. Wouldn't it be more likely to ease boredom and
loneliness with laughter than with a bunch of shuteyed mumbling?
Sarajane

It was a different time and place. Sadly, children didn't seem to be
as valued as they are now. (which can be argued, either way) I
think that's because people had no choice whatsoever about having
children. Women married and had loads of children, or (if Catholic)
became "Brides of Christ" and spent their lives as nuns.

In a lot of cases, the women becoming nuns were given no choice in
the matter at all - their families promised a daughter to the church,
and off she went. Being a nun was no picnic - my mother in law
recalled a time when the nuns ate off tin plates and had no heat in
their "cells" (they really called them that). No fun during a New
England winter.

Thank God there are more choices for women these days. It's a lot
easier to love children if you have the choice to bear them or to be
with them. And Fathers are now given the chance to be with their
children as well. It's not the distant relationship that it had been
years ago, with Moms doing all the caregiving and fathers spending
their lives earning a living for the family and missing out on the
day to day lives of their children.

I'm sorry my story has had this reaction. I wrote it in jest, not to
make it sound like I was a punching bag. The truth is that I did and
do laugh all the time at church, and when I meet my maker, he's going
to have to deal with my giggling self. After all, he's the one who
made me with my sense of the absurd, and way of finding humor in
almost everything.

Kathy N-V

My extended family is Catholic and I hear stories of what my mom went
through, being from a good Italian Catholic family. I think it taught her
how to be more sneaky. Holy smokes. I can't imagine. I'm glad they can
laugh about it now but it's probably the reason my mom didn't raise us with
any religion. It's also nice that I've been able to explore my own paths
and have actually come to love church....ours encourages laughing....even
out loud....and the Pastor cracks jokes left and right. Ok, you out there
gasping....we have a 'rock' band too and even use movie clips during the
sermon. )

I have a recent funny story regarding Catholic friends too. I though it was
funny anyway. Some childhood friends came out for vacation this last month
and said they'd give us a call after mass on Sunday. I told them, I know
our church is 'different' but they're welcome to come with us. Well, she
called her mom, back in Indiana, to see if it was "ok". Her mom is a big
RCIA teacher. I forget what it stands for but I took the classes as an
adult to be communioned, confessioned, confirmed and whatever else I needed
to to become a Catholic (besides baptism...my parents didn't let me out of
the house until I was baptized as a baby).

Anyway, Sister Mary Jo Jo (as we affectionately called my friend's mom
growing up) said, "You can go, but it won't count. You'll have to go
again." Silly me. I thought we were kinda in the same club.

I love hearing stories about kids going to church and the things they did
when they were so bored. )

--
--------------------------------------
Lori Greenberg
www.beadnerd.com
justbeads:
http://snipurl.com/axek

"Kathy N-V" wrote in message
. giganews.com...
Ever since I can remember, I have have behaved badly in church. Not
"steal from the collection plate bad," which I know is a one-way and
permanent ticket to Hell, but more like what comedian Kathy Griffin
calls "the church giggles." The more I know that I need to behave,
the harder it is for me to keep a straight face. Even if I am truly
moved by the service, and my heart is aching with pain, I'm still
smirking on the outside.

I remember being a little girl, going to Mass before Vatican II. My
mother took great pride in dressing my sister and me like identical
little angels, with matching dresses, lace tights, gloves, and little
white mantillas. For those who aren't Catholic or have forgotten,
all women used to have to cover their heads at Mass before Vatican
II. Catholic women carried a little round lace doily called a
mantilla in their purses, in case there was some reason an unexpected
Mass popped up. This was also the same period of time during which
the nuns taught us that if we saw someone dying, we weren't to call
911 or administer first aid, we were supposed to get a bit of water
and baptize the poor slob, just in case they were still carrying
around some original sin, and would go off to Hell if they croaked.
Once the amateur emergency baptism was over, then it was okay to call
911. (BTW, when the nuns tell you that you can use any ordinary water
in these impromptu baptisms, asking if spit is okay to use is NOT a
good idea)

Anyway, back to my being a little kid, all dressed up for church.
Mom would drag all three of us to Mass, which had to have been the
low point of her week. We three kids are only 22 months apart,
meaning she had three babies at the same time. But she was a good
Catholic mother, as evidenced by the three kids in less than two
years thing, and Mass was absolutely manditory. Only being on one's
deathbed was a proper excuse, and even that was shaky - if you didn't
actually die, you had to confess your sin of missing Mass. As the
oldest, (nominally, anyway), I was supposed to set the proper tone of
behavior for my younger siblings. Bad move, Mom.

As I mentioned before, women and girls always had a mantilla to wear
at church. This scrap of lace provided many opportunities to enjoy
onesself, as long as I was out of Mom's arm's reach. (Usually safe
because she would be holding my baby sister and following the Mass in
Latin) I could stick my tongue through the little holes in the lace,
pull it tightly over the skin on my arm and make denty floral
designs, or worst (best) of all, make the mantilla fly and flutter
like a kite. I had a little purse for church, which held a dime for
the collection plate, a little white plastic rosary, and a tiny
Missalette, a book which held the readings for each Mass. (Catholics
don't need them any longer. They've been replaced by a cheap
magazine on newsprint)

The rosary also offered significant opportunities for entertainment.
The beads made a fun noise when whacked against the back of the pew,
and could be woven between one's fingers. You could bother your
little brother and convince him to have a rosary fight with his
rosary. That was dangerous, because if caught, it meant an instant
and severe spanking when we left church. The spanking was usually
reserved for when we got home. The formulas was: the more fun you
had at Mass, the worse the spanking when you got home.

As I got older, I went to Sunday School, which was run by mean and
jaded old nuns, who kept a sharp eye on us "public school children."
We soon learned that being a public school child was only a half step
away from Hell, and that we were going to spend billions of years in
Purgatory making up for the sin of not attending Parochial school
like good children. Like we had a choice in those days. You went to
whichever school your parents said you went to. In my case, there
was a school three doors down from the house, and it cost nothing.
End of discussion.

Still, even the presence of the fearsome Sister Joanice couldn't keep
me in line. I could always find some reason to giggle, which always
turned into a full fledged laugh as soon as I tried to stifle it.
Sister Joanice soon learned to sit me at the end of a pew, so I was
always within smacking distance. It didn't help. Kathleen, who was
always so incredibly well behaved in school (I never got a detention,
suspension or even had to stay after in my whole time in school),
could never be counted on to keep a straight face during the Mass.
(BTW, Kathleen is my name only when my parents are speaking or when
I'm bad. I'm Kathy the rest of the time)

Fortunately for me, we Sunday School children were marched over to
the 9:00 a.m. Mass every week to be supervised by Sister
Whoever-we-had-that-year, letting our parents off the hook. Even the
most sharp eyed sister was easier than my mother, because Sister had
35 or so of us to watch, and Mom only had three - and she knew which
one was going to act up. I still misbehaved, but a few whacks on the
back of the head was infinitely better than the heavy duty spanking
and week's worth of "why can't you behave in Church" lectures I was
sure to get from my parents. Besides, it was way more fun to go to
Mass with one's friends, public school children all, who knew we
already had one foot in Hell and the other on a banana peel, and not
much to lose.

BTW, our badness was limited to giggling and playing wiht our
rosaries and mantillas. We had all heard the story about the kid who
took his collection plate dime and bought a donut with it, but that
was too terrible to even imagine. I suspected that God struck him
down the moment he left the donut shop for spending His dime. In our
minds, there were no worse sins than that.

Years passed, Sunday School was renamed CCD, and we only went to Mass
once a month on a weekday. This was a double rip-off, because it
meant we had to go to church on Sunday with our mother, and _again_
on Wednesday with Sister. So incredibly unfair, yet bringing up the
argument with my mother yielded nothing more than a smack on the back
of the head.

In case you haven't guessed yet, my religious education allowed me to
retain only two things: memorizing the Baltimore Catechism (a book
of questions and answers that was supposed to answer all questions of
faith), and getting smacked by one adult or another. I never went
home to report that I had been smacked by a teacher or a nun, because
in those days, that was just asking for another spanking: after all,
if you weren't bad, they wouldn't have hit you. That didn't exactly
explain the beating I got for having a broken leg (it looked really
bad in line while we children were in processional) or the beating
the Romano brothers got for being twins and having only one set of
Godparents. As I said, these nuns were the bitter and worn out ones,
jaded after a lifetime of molding young heathens into good Catholic
adults, all for no pay and little credit.

I'm an adult now (or so they tell me), but old habits die hard. I
still cannot go to Mass without giggling. One time it was the little
boy who pulled down his pants to scratch his butt during the
communion prayer (which I would have missed if I had been properly
devout and had my eyes shut and my mind on the prayer). Then there
were the kids who were supposed to be holding brooms to represent the
stable in Bethlehem, and ended up having a broom fight in the middle
of Christmas Mass. (other people were horrified. I was holding my
sides with laughter) Or the time that a visiting priest wore white
sandals with his vestments during a warm summer Mass. You name a
Mass, I can find some reason to laugh.

Nowadays, there are no nuns to hit me: the only nuns I know are very
sweet elderly women who are my friends. There are no more mantillas,
and I only use a rosary at home, when I want to pray and meditate in
silence. But now there is Amanda, who is every bit as sharp-eyed and
merciless as my mother. I cannot count the number of times I've
walked back to the car, head bowed, fighting a smile off my lips as
Manda lectured me. "This is God's House! Can't you show even a
little respect? It's only an hour a week, and you can't behave for
even that long?"

Nope. Sorry, I can't. I can only hope that God will forgive my
laughter, or I'll be spending zillions of years working off my
giggles in Purgatory. I think I'll be okay, though. I'm quite sure
He has a sense of humor. He made me, after all; and that was the
first Q&A in the Baltimore Catechism. ("Who made me? God made me.")
If making me isn't proof of a bizarre sense of humor, I don't know
what is. As long as we don't get to _why_ God made me, I'm totally
in the clear. Unfortunately, that sticky "why" question is the second
one in the Catechism, and "to giggle and look for funny things during
Mass" isn't exactly the answer we learned.

I'm glad I'm not a Protestant, though. I hear that they spend
_hours_ at their service, and that a head bowed, eyes closed prayer
can last twenty minutes or more. I can see them tossing me out on my
hell-bound behind during the very first service. At least I can go
to confession (oops, that's "Rite of Reconciliation" these days) and
wipe some of the giggles off my black soul.

Kathy N-V, who finds life endlessly amusing

It was a different time and place.

yep. Still is that way in places where the fearful side of a punitive lord
holds sway. But thats not everywhere, and even in the hard spots like
that/then, there are people who can find reasons and times to laugh. That's a
blessing!
Sarajane

Sarajane's Polymer Clay Gallery
http://www.polyclay.com

I love hearing stories about kids going to church and the things they did
when they were so bored.

We went to all sorts of different churches when I was growing up; we moved a
lot. When I was 17, I went off to a Catholic Girls College.....tho not
catholic, it was sorta like being a cultural anthropologist, observing and
living among the group, yet an outsider too. Gotta say, a lot of great art and
gorgeous handwork was done for that group.
Sarajane

Sarajane's Polymer Clay Gallery
http://www.polyclay.com