As a kid, it ticked me off that certain things were “boys only.”

For example, my dad took my brothers bowling. But not me.

“I’ll take you bowling on your wedding day,” Dad promised. I reminded him of that oft-spoken vow on Gary’s and my big day in 1982, but didn’t hold my father to it.

It was the mid-1960s, and my older brothers were donning the special robes, lighting the candles, ringing the chimes, and burning the incense.

My brothers were altar boys.

Dad was one years ago, too. Back then (the late 1930s, early 1940s), the care of one’s cassock and surplice was up to the altar boy. Or, more specifically, his mom.

Poor Grandma! All those kids, plus an altar boy in the house! This was before permanent press, of course, and Dad still remembers Grandma’s careful touch as she ironed the pleats in his immaculately white surplice.

“Offer it up,” the nuns taught us.

When we didn’t want to do something, it was sort of a quid pro quo. Banking favors with God.

By the time my brothers were altar boys, someone else took care of the laundering, thankfully.

Here’s what they wore: The black garment is the cassock (not to be confused with a Russian Cossack) and the white vestment is called the surplice.

I asked Harry and Dave if they remember much about serving as altar boys all those years ago.

Dave remembers a fellow altar boy named John who was a bit of a hell raiser. At Midnight Mass one Christmas, there were so many altar boys that most had to sit together in the pews (those hard wooden benches the rest of us squirmed on during the sit-down portion of the service).

Well, ol’ John must have had a long day, as he nodded off during the homily (the Catholic term for sermon). As if that wasn’t bad enough, the little stinker started talking in his sleep. Or, to be more specific, cussing in his sleep.

It was a night to remember.

Harry‘s sole recollection gives new meaning to pew: He recalls that the priests … um, were excessively gassy.

Offer it up, boys!

Through it all, it ticked me off that girls couldn’t be servers.

My dear mom was far more humble than her only daughter. Dad told me recently when their church asked them to be servers for weekday funerals 20 or so years ago, Mom felt she wasn’t worthy.

It was only when the priest asked again, saying she was needed that Mom agreed to help. Oh, Mom … you were always worthy.

My call to serve was completely unexpected.

I believe it was in 1968, when I was in the 4th grade at Sacred Heart School.

The school went to Mass en masse the first Friday of each month of the school year. (How’s this for confusing: Gary‘s grade school here in Indiana went to Mass daily – and it was a public school!)

There was a new boy in school – I think his name was Frederick and I think he was from Puerto Rico. He was in third grade.

On that First Friday after Frederick arrived, we all lined up to process solemnly over to The Pink Church …

Yes, our church was pink! For some reason, I didn’t realize at the time how unusual it was to have a cotton-candy pink church in western Massachusetts.

Anyway, as we lined up to head over for Mass, Sister hollered, “Frederick! Remember, you have not received your First Holy Communion yet – you may not receive communion today. When the time comes, stay in your pew and wait.”

Well. When the time came, Frederick (whose English was far from perfect, poor lad) followed his classmates up the church aisle, stuck out his tongue at the appropriate moment, and received the Body of Christ for the first time.

I watched from my pew. Horrified.

Sister’s gonna kill Frederick!

… and after she kills him, she’s gonna kill the rest of us!

I really did think the end was coming. Poor little Frederick was grabbed roughly by the arm and dragged away.

I said a little prayer for him.

We didn’t see Frederick for the rest of the day. Near the end of sixth period, Sister called me out of class and sent me to the office.

I knew it! I’d witnessed the sin, so I was to receive equal punishment. I dragged my feet as I approached Sister Superior’s office, across the hall from the Bishop’s stern portrait.

“Come inside and be seated,” she said solemnly, as she closed the door. I was stunned and relieved to see Frederick there. He looked nervous, but was still alive.

Sister Superior got right to the point: “Frederick took communion this morning in spite of his not receiving the sacrament of First Holy Communion.”

I nodded solemnly. My mouth was dry. Frederick’s eyes were blinking rapidly. I wondered if he was sending me a coded message.

Sister Superior continued: “We have decided that Frederick will not wait until next year’s First Holy Communion class, but will receive the sacrament as soon as you can prepare him.”

Wait. What?

Prepare him? I was 10 years old!

Sure, I’d made my First Holy Communion two years earlier, but that didn’t make me an expert!

It turns out Sister Superior just wanted me to teach Frederick the basic prayers. You know, the Our Father, Hail Mary, Act of Contrition, Apostles Creed.

Frederick and I spent the next month hanging out on the church parking lot during recess as I drilled him on the prayers.

I never openly questioned why this wasn’t important enough for us to do during class hours. I already knew the answer: Offer it up.

I’m happy to report that Frederick successfully received his First Holy Communion, although I was not invited to the ceremony. I was just relieved that the massive stain on his soul was fading and would maybe even disappear altogether, as long as he didn’t jump the gun on any other sacraments.

My artistic brother Dave sent me a second, more introspective memory of being an altar boy: Even at that age, I remember being profoundly moved by the softly-lit, quiet church in the middle of the night. At other masses, I liked ringing the bell at the moments of transubstantiation; to this day I consider that marriage of sound, gesture, and mystery to be the most moving part of the Catholic Mass.

Amen.

Would you like to receive an email notice when there’s a new Too Much Brudders post? Sign up here: