I learned how to lie as a first grader in Catholic School. In Catholic School, you ask? Yes, in ^1st grade in Catholic School. It was while I was preparing to make my first communion. It was such a big deal to the nuns and my parents. The second sacrament in my journey as a good Catholic girl, (the first being Baptism into the Catholic Church.) It was a ceremony full of pomp and circumstances. A very serious ceremony. One that would make me a more integral part of the Church.

Part of earning the privilege of making my first communion meant I had to go to confession first, tell all my sins to the priest who would somehow absolve me of the terrible stain the sins had painted onto my pure white soul. But what exactly is a sin when you are 7 years old?

I really didn’t know what it meant to be a sinner. We had been taught in class that there were mortal sins and venial sins. The mortal sins were murder, theft, greed, lust, coveting your neighbor’s goods or wife, among others. Venial sins were less critical sins and included things like lying or cheating on your schoolwork. Laughing at someone’s misfortune, name calling, taking the Lord’s name in vain etc. The little girl that I was couldn’t even imagine having sinned. But I knew if I wanted to become part of the Church, I had to go through this process as every other good Catholic had. And at the time, I wanted that. But how would I deal with this sinning thing?

The Church was right across the street from the school; and on the appointed day, the nuns had us put away our papers, go to the coat closet – in a very orderly fashion – and line up. All the while we were getting ready, the nuns reminded us of what an important day this would be in our life as we became a real member of Jesus’ flock. We better be on our best behavior. Walk quietly down the sidewalk and wait for the signal to cross the street to the Church. There would be no talking. No running. And no monkey business. Those who did not behave would have to go to the Mother Superior’s office for punishment when we came back.

Filled with dread at the thought of going to Mother Superior’s office, we did manage to remain quiet and on our best behavior as we left the school and crossed the street. We filed into the Church and sat in our appointed seats as directed by the nuns. It was kind of dark and very, very quiet. Looking around, I was once again in awe of the beauty of the stained-glass windows but saddened by the depictions of the signs of the cross – Jesus’ journey to his death. At 7 years old, I thought to myself, why would someone willingly carry a cross to a hill, all the while being ridiculed and hurt by those in the crowd, let himself be nailed to it, then let that cross be hauled into an upright position, so you could just hang there and die an agonizing death? It made no sense to me.

As I sat there waiting, a hint of frankincense hit my nostrils and I thought there must have been a funeral that day. I always associate that smell with a funeral Mass, ever since my Uncle had died and I had to go to the Mass. A little pungent, a little sweet, very distinct and very much part of my Church experience. It was almost a comfort in its familiarity.

We all waited, trying to sit still in the pews; watching one after another after another make their way to the Confessional box, trying to see the expression on their face as they left. What was their punishment? What sins had they committed? Could they be forgiven? If not, where would their souls end up?

My stomach started to hurt. I wondered if the other kids were thinking the same thing. I started to squirm, unable to sit still while visions of disappointing the nuns or my parents filled my mind. I was only 7 for God’s sake. What could I have possibly done that would be considered a sin?

And then it was my turn. I got up, my knees shaking, and walked up to the confessional, pulled back the curtain and stepped in. Inside it was darker than the main Church. There was a hard, wooden bench for me to sit on, so I sat down with a thud and waited. Palms sweating, a tug of fear in my heart, I tried to think about all the ways I might have sinned in my 7 years on earth. Almost immediately, the priest, who was sitting on the other side of a thin wall with a small, square window about halfway up, drew back a trapdoor which exposed a screen on the window. He didn’t say anything. And I didn’t say anything. My mouth became dry and cottony as the truth hit me.

 I knew I hadn’t killed anyone. I’d never stolen anything. I wasn’t sure about what greed, or lust, or coveting meant, so I was pretty sure I hadn’t done any of those things. I wasn’t good at lying then so I didn’t even try. I was very smart, so I didn’t need to cheat on anyone else’s papers. My mom wouldn’t let us call other people names, and to laugh at someone’s misfortune was just plain mean. As for swearing, well, my Mom wouldn’t say shit if she had a mouthful. I wasn’t even sure what a swear was.

As I sat there the truth became clear. I knew that if I wanted to make my first confession and walk down the center aisle at Church with all my classmates, dressed in a pretty, white dress with matching gloves and a crinkly veil, making my parents so happy, taking my first holy host, I was going to have to lie. To a priest. For my first confession. Somehow that didn’t make any sense, but well, that’s what I had to do.

“Bless me father, for I have sinned.,” I said. “This is my first confession.”