The light of a smile brightens darkest corners

When you’re a student in Catholic school, Lent means one thing: Life as you know it will change drastically for the next 40 or so days.

Now, before the most devote among you start reaching for your rosary beads to pray for my soul because I’m railing against the church – relax. I’m not. The mind of a Catholic school child/student works in mysterious ways. We practiced our faith, but did so, many times, under threat from nuns. Days seem to be unending when there’s a nun standing over you holding a yard stick that she’s not afraid to use.

A Catholic school kid experiences education

much the same way our “public” cohorts did, but with a few bonuses: fear (of the above-mentioned yard-stick wielding nun); intimidation (parents who believed, without question, that Sister was well within her rights and absolutely justified in using that yard stick); and respect for the faith we were being taught.

Honestly, I wouldn’t trade a minute of the time I spent as a student at St. Patrick’s Grade School for anything in the world. Even with the stick-yielding nuns (and one lay teacher. Anyone who went to St. Pat’s during a certain time will remember “Dora.” I won’t share her whole name for fear of retribution (I have no doubt she has the power to transcend the great beyond, so to speak).

Even with those intimidating forces, I wouldn’t give back a second of my time at St. Pat’s.

Well, maybe that time I went down the main staircase on my butt when my foot slipped from under me -- I would probably trade that in because that was rather painful.

Or that time I yawned and hiccupped at the same time in the eighth grade, creating a noise that I’m fairly certain could only be replicated in a lion’s den during feeding time. Mr. (Joe) Maccolini stopped in mid-lesson to look around, searching for the source of that god-awful sound. I guess the cat’s out of the bag (pun intended) if he didn’t know that sound came from me.

I would also swap that out for sure. It was bad enough my thick red hair resembled, at the time, a lion’s mane.

And that time I was caught lighting candles even though I didn’t drop any coins in the slot. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t trade that moment at all because it led to one of the few memories I have of my dad and me doing something, just the two of us. As a punishment for “stealing” he took me to church to pay for those lit candles. While it was his money (I was only 7, so I wasn’t yet flush with cash) the memory, and the moral of the story, stays with me.

All in all, I survived eight Lenten seasons at St. Pat’s. I use the word survive because, when you’re a kid during Lent, time pretty much stands still. One minute of ordinary time is about 2 hours of Lenten time. At least, in my distorted memory, it seems that way.

Once those ashes are smeared on a Catholic school kid’s forehead, the changes start. First up is Stations of the Cross. The first time we heard that classes on Friday afternoons would be replaced by Stations of the Cross, my classmates and I rejoiced. Why wouldn’t we want to forgo math and science in exchange for a couple of hours in a beautiful church?

Because of the kneeling – that’s why. And the amount of time – which, as noted above, was about 10 hours of kneeling, standing, kneeling, standing…

But those weekly stations left two very distinct impressions on me, lessons, I think, that were crucial to my maturity.

Each time we knelt, and my knees ached and I desperately wanted to lean back on the pew, I heard my grandmother’s voice saying, “Jesus suffered on the cross for 3 hours. You can kneel for 15 minutes.”

Actually, though, as noted above, those are 15 minutes in real time…

Those words echoing in my head weren’t meant to chastise or belittle me – my grandmother was subtly helping me understand and embrace compassion, sacrifice and putting others before me. And – no matter how bad you think you have it, there’s always someone else in greater need, pain or struggling more.

All-in-all, that lesson was definitely worth those five hours (OK, really probably just 30 to 45 minutes) of Friday Stations of the Cross.

The other thing that came from those Friday afternoons in church was the memory I have of Father Rayford Emmons’ smile.

Father Ray was the first African-American priest to be ordained in the Archdiocese of Philadelphia, and his first assignment was St. Pat’s. (In 1987 he broke down barriers again when he became the first African-American to be appointed pastor of a parish. He’s currently at Holy Cross parish in Philly, according to the archdiocese).

Father Ray’s smile is something I see in my mind still, because it was so genuine, so engaging and so, well, real. It was through his smile and pure joy that I realized that faith is something to be celebrated. Each Friday he took his place at the front of the church and addressed all the kids of St. Pat’s during stations. He spoke of sacrifice, and devotion and compassion. He connected with us in ways no other priest did before. He spoke to us, not at us, and he was able to make us understand that this kneeling-standing-kneeling business served an important purpose in our lives. He made all those “chores” associated with practicing faith joyous and happy.

But mostly, and most importantly, the words Father Ray shared with us on Friday afternoons, while by nature served to make us better Christians, the intent clearly was there to make us better people – strong, decent, supportive members of society.

Those lessons – the lessons that taught us compassion, sacrifice for the greater good, finding joy in life and in faith, putting others first – are lessons that transcend all religions and faiths, ethnicity, skin color, political affiliation.

We’ve heard it said before, yet we still find difficulty believing that the one thing we all have in common is our humanity. Yet every day we’re confronted with arrogance, hypocrisy, fraud, entitlement, dishonesty and selfishness. And that’s not just in the White House and on Capitol Hill. We find those insults to humanity everywhere.

Fortunately, for every insult to humanity, we have people like Father Ray -- who stand before us sharing joy and goodness. I like to think people like Father Ray (and I’m fortunate to have a lot of people like him in my life, like our current pastor, Father Gus Puleo), are the shields that protect decent people.

Every Catholic child should have a Father Ray in their lives while their faith is forming. Heck, every kid, regardless of faith, should have someone like Father Ray in their lives.

Come to think of it, this country needs a smile like Father Ray’s shining light in the dark corners and giving us reason to hope.