My First Communion

Angela Toomer
Wranovix
Spiritual Autobiography
18 September 2009

“Your First Communion,” my second grade teacher told me, “will be the most important day of your life.” It was quite a claim. Preparations were made weeks and weeks in advance: my mom, sister, and I went shopping for dresses, in the girl’s section of Dillard’s, settling eventually, mercifully, upon a white tulle dress. They all looked the same to me, anyway. My grandparents were coming in town from St. Louis. An order for a big, sugary sheet cake had been placed at the Kroger down the street.
The week before, I remember having a practice run of the actual receiving of Communion. My classmates and I lined up in our classroom, among the wooden desks and chalkboards, with the American flag above our heads, waving slightly from the air conditioner, nodding in approval. My teacher, Mrs. Snow, decided not to say the actual words, “The Body of Christ” as she gave us the saltine cracker that was supposed to represent the actual Body of Christ that would be in our hands just a few days later. It was a good call on her part, as I had trouble keeping a straight face at the thought of the ridiculousness of this practice, without her borderline-blasphemy, calling a saltine cracker the Body of Christ.
Mrs. Snow also explained Mass etiquette to us—as though we hadn’t been going to Mass twice a week since we could talk. But this Mass was different, she explained, everyone would be watching us, so we needed to be on our best behavior. This, apparently, meant that we shouldn’t cross our legs, except at the ankles. We should keep our hands folded the whole time, and not the casual, interlaced fingers kind of folded. It needed to be the formal, fingers-straight-out kind. “What about when we’re sitting?” one of my classmates asked. “Keep your hands folded in your lap,” Mrs. Snow replied.
The event was one that I dreaded and looked forward to in equal amounts. What if I dropped the host? Surely there was no way I could possibly stay out of hell if I did something like that. When Sunday morning finally arrived, I was nervous as my mom curled my hair in front of the mirror. It was a rainy morning, and when our minivan pulled up on front of the church, my dad let us out, and then went to go park. An air of anticipation was heavy in the church. It was busier than it was most Sundays, too, filled with parents holding cameras, wearing anxious smiles, praying that their kids don’t embarrass them. It was a similar feeling to standing in an auditorium before a class play. My shoes were brand new, and uncomfortable on my feet, and I wasn’t used to wearing tights. It didn’t matter much that I couldn’t really move, though; I couldn’t cross my legs, the only thing I was expected to do was sit there, except for when I would get up to receive Communion, and I shuddered a little at the thought. As I sat there, trying my best not to move, I wondered what I was supposed to be doing, exactly. On the most important day of my life, I guess I should try to pray, or maybe contemplate, but all I could think about was the stiffness of my dress, shoes, and tights, and how I wasn’t supposed to fidget. I couldn’t relax, as I sat there in the pews with my feet dangling a few inches above the ground, I couldn’t enjoy the most important day of my life. The church air felt heavy with incense and the collective expectation that rose up from the pews where we were sitting.
When the time came for us to walk up to the front of the church, I concentrated on not tripping over my feet, carefully remembering to keep my hands folded. You could taste the expectancy in the air, see it in the nervous gestures of my friends and I as we lifted up the kneeler, stood, turned to the side, and walked. I tried to remember everything I had been taught, in order not to mess up, to do everything right, so I could…I guess, have the greatest spiritual experience possible? More than likely, I was probably just posing for the video camera I could see out of the corner of my eye. When my turn came to take a final hesitant step up to the priest, I remember trying to stay alert and aware of what was happening, but then, it happened. Or, rather, nothing happened. My expectations did not match the actual experience. The host on my tongue contained no explosion of sudden holiness, there was no sudden epiphany. I didn’t feel any different as I walked back to my seat, trying to grasp the experience. I thought if this was, in fact, the greatest day of my life, I should be crying, or laughing, or showing some kind of emotion. Instead I was just a reproduction of everyone else in that brightly lit, sterile church: stoic, composed, and restrained.