Son’s shotgun confirmation a blessed event, in S.F. style

The ranks of Christianity have one more soldier. Well, they don’t call them soldiers anymore. But Aidan is confirmed.

We didn’t think it would happen. Originally scheduled for St. Mary’s Cathedral in May 2020, it was postponed and then canceled because of COVID. We’d just about accepted that Aidan would be a heathen for life.

Then, on March 15, we got an email from Ms. I, the principal at his old school: “If you can get Aidan to St. John’s Church on Saturday, we can get this done. Just bring Aidan, the sponsor and the parents.”

We got ourselves a shotgun confirmation.

This left me with the burden of telling our family that Aidan was reaching this milestone, and that they were not invited. First up was Amanda, Aidan’s Jewish godmother. I explained that it’s kind of like a bar mitzvah, but no one says, “Today, I am a man.”

“But,” I went on, “to make up for no one memorizing the Torah, at least the priest gets to slap him, and he gets a new middle name.”

Then I told the siblings.

All three Paulson boys did our confirmation at St. Anthony of Padua Church in South Ozone Park. All three of us got slapped as Father Fusco proclaimed we were “soldiers of Christ.”

He added, “You get seven gifts at this thing, but the most important for you three is the fear of God.”

Whereas Brother X and I chose prosaic confirmation names, Aloysius and Charlemagne, respectively, Brother XX chose Michael, in honor of Mickey Mantle.

Someone should have told him Mickey Mantle wasn’t Catholic. Brother XX didn’t last as a Catholic much longer, converting to devout atheism. Brother X remains a downonyourknees Catholic.

We only see each other once every six years or so. We’re at the major milestones point in our fraternal relationship, where we call only for births, marriages or deaths, or as Father Fusco would say, “When someone gets hatched, matched or dispatched.”

So, I emailed them both. Brother XX wanted to make sure we weren’t raising Aidan too Catholic; Brother X wanted to make sure we were raising Aidan just Catholic enough.

Truth is, it’s up to Aidan. He chose his own sponsor (Sister Lil, or as the readers know her, Lil Sister). He chose his confirmation name: Francis, the patron saint of animals. Lucky he didn’t pick Dolittle.

St. John the Evangelist Catholic Church is not in the outer, outer, outer, outer Excelsior. Located in Bernal Heights, and built in 1893, it’s a small parish of about 300 families, known for its diversity. But you could tell they had never known a family as diverse as the FisherPaulsons.

When we walked in for the rehearsal, Father Agnel said, “I read your column all the time. You and your wife can sit right here in the front pew!” I wouldn’t want to question a man of faith, but I’m pretty sure that if you read these columns you know that my husband is not a wife, and he hates sitting in the front pew.

But Father Agnel came through. He chose Aidan to read a few lines about wisdom, and then said, “The old church taught that this is where you got the fear of God, but we don’t call it that anymore. We call it awe. Your children are filled with awe.”

Brian leaned over and whispered, “No wonder he’s so aweful.”

For once I did not tear up. Neither did my “wife.” Instead, we contemplated the wonder at whatever creation exists that had nurtured our youngest son and gotten him here today.

Aidan is not a soldier. He did not get slapped. He did not get to say, “Today, I am a man.” He’s no longer a boy, not quite a man, but he’s on his way. And he is full of awe.

Aidan chose his own sponsor. He chose his confirmation name: Francis, the patron saint of animals. Lucky he didn’t pick Dolittle.