The College Routine

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With the draft behind me, it was time to make arrangements for college in the real world. The first issue was where to live. My aunt and uncle invited me to stay with them and ride into school with my cousin. That sounded like as good a plan as any.

The next step was to register for classes. When I left to return home from the monastery, the Vicar (in charge of the monastery’s money) gave me enough to get home and little else. When I got in line to register, I saw the very same priest, who gave me money to get home, in line to register. It turned out that he had decided to leave the monastery and must have done so right after a group of us had been sent home.  I would have liked to talk with him about his experience in the monastery and about why he left. I never saw him after registration and did not get a chance to hear his story. I registered for mostly psychology courses.

In order to register for the more advanced classes, one had to have first completed Introduction to Psychology and also Statistics. I had taken a course in the seminary called Introduction to Psychology which I am sure was not up to the UB standards. I had read quite a bit about psychology and had devoured a “real” book on psychology. I hoped that was sufficient. Statistics was another story. I was lost during the first part of the course but put my other subjects on the back burner and managed to pass that course as well as everything else.

The formalities being completed, it was time to get down to business. In my very first class I saw an open seat next to a girl. When she turned to face me, I realized that she was stunning but I had no idea how to talk with a college girl. I managed to share my rather unusual path to sitting next to her in a college class. She listened with rapt attention. I would have liked to see her again outside class but did not have the presence of mind to say so and never did get to know her better.

I eventually got into the routine although I often felt like a fish out of water. I managed to hold my own for the most part. I did have some trouble keeping up with Social Psychology. The course was held on Monday, Wednesday and Friday at 3 PM. My cousin finished his classes at three and had a penchant for visiting a series of local bars on the way home. If I wanted a ride back to my aunt and uncle’s house it was necessary to skip my last class which I did on occasion. I eventually started taking the bus after my last class. I enjoyed the bar scene but tried not to get carried away. Once I indulged in more that I should have. I had trouble walking into the house. When I got around to bedtime, I watched the bed spinning and jumped into the middle of it. I was lucky not to land on the floor. I never had that experience in the seminary or monastery.

Home from the Airport

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As I walked off the plane, I saw two young soldiers waiting to board my plane. I did not talk with them but did realize that I was now not in school any more and that I was prime fodder for Vietnam. After nine years in the seminary and monastery, I was not anxious to have my whole life in someone else’s hand. I had known that I would lose my college deferment for religious life, but here I was, face to face with my next challenge.

I thought of something my mother said when I began the seminary phase of my life, “The back door is always open.” For years I recalled the last thing she told me but did not think I would be in a position to take her up on the offer. My parents met me at the airport and brought me home with my few possessions. Once we got home, my father asked me what I planned to do next. My mother just hugged me.

My goal was to get into college. I contacted the University of Rochester and quickly learned that since I was three quarters through my undergraduate work, they were not interested in accepting me. That night my Uncle Tom, Aunt June and my cousin Kathy drove up from North Tonawanda, a suburb of Buffalo, to have dinner with my family and welcome me home.

I told them of my lack of success so far in finding a college which would consider me. The told me that my cousin, Tom, was attending the University of Buffalo and that the tuition was more manageable than a private school. They were returning home after dinner and invited me to go back with them and consider the University of Buffalo (UB). I was happy to have another possibility on the horizon. My uncle drove his Karmann Ghia, a tiny car. I scrunched into the back with Kathy for the trip of about an hour. We were huddled together and ended up holding hands with no words exchanged. I thought about the last time I held a girl’s hand in eighth grade. I found it exciting but something quite foreign to me after nine years.

I made it to UB admissions office only to learn that registration for the January term closed two days before I got there and there were no exceptions. On the way back to my aunt and uncle’s house, I had visions of the army. My Uncle Dick, now a priest in a nearby town came to dinner and listened to my sad story. He asked who the Dean of Admissions at UB was. I told him but reminded him that admissions were closed for the next semester. He thought a moment and then said that the Dean had been a classmate of his in high school and that he lived in Dunkirk with his mother.

He called the Dean who invited my uncle to come up that night to Dunkirk. We did and the upshot was that he would make sure I got registered. I returned to UB the next morning and marched past the Dean’s outer, middle and inner secretaries. After a short talk I was on my way to register with his permission. My first post-seminary crisis was averted.

Final Seminary Reflection

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I spent nine years in the seminary and monastery. I entered at the beginning of puberty and left a grown man, at least physically. When I entered the seminary, I had little more than a childish notion about what lay ahead of me. As I went along, I learned what was expected at each stage. While at Holy Cross, I learned in a general way what to expect of the monastic life. In the novitiate I learned the day to day routine. I did not seem to have time to evaluate the monastic life until I was finished with the novitiate and settled in the relative isolation of West Springfield. During this first year out of novitiate, I began to be more acutely aware of the restrictions on our learning. I also became aware that at least some of the monks living with us took liberties and made compromises in how they lived the monastic life. These observations weakened my idealism somewhat. What I viewed as the unreasonable response to my request to attend my grandmother’s funeral made me realize there were inconsistent standards, stricter for students than for priests. It also strengthened my perception that some changes needed to be made in our way of life.

I was optimistic about seeing some of these changes as we moved to Jamaica, with all the possibilities open to us in greater New York. I soon realized there would be little more chance to broaden our education in Jamaica than there was in West Springfield. I moved from frustration to resentment and eventually to a quiet rebellion.  It eventually became apparent that I had the choice of abandoning my idealism and hope for change, or leaving the Passsionist Order. I had a hard time letting go of my idealism and reached a final decision at last. I did not feel I had as much time as I would have liked to consider my choices.

However,  I had to decide some time. I don’t think any amount of time would have changed my choices, which were more clear to my religious superiors than they were to me. It was time to leave, but after so many years in the seminary, it was hard for me to accept this.

I left with a great deal of confusion about what I believed concerning God, religion, the world and myself. It was almost as if I was landing on a different planet. I realized I had not really experienced a normal adolescence and felt awkward now having a girl sitting next to me on the plane.

I would have a great deal to learn about personal responsibility, relationships, and money. I also had to continue thinking about a new direction for my life, which Father Thomas had helped me begin. I was not trained to do anything but continue studying philosophy, which did not seem very practical to me. I had learned to think critically, which of late had not been appreciated by the powers that be. My skills had been honed in a trial by fire and I left feeling burned.

I did have a good classical education with at least an introduction to thinkers through the ages and some sense of the development of Western Civilization. My English courses as well as exposure to French and Greek gave me good writing skills. My position papers helped me learn how to be specific in what I wanted to communicate. I was more comfortable with writing than speaking, but had learned how to express myself.

In my studies, I had learned a fair number of facts as well as the rudiments of several languages. What I did not have anymore was a focus. The last couple years I had been trying to interest others in working on changes in the Passionist Order. Now I was no longer part of the Order and would be severed when permission came from Rome to release me from my vows.

I was free to own property, date and to make my own decisions. However I was also responsible for the consequences of my decisions. I felt unprepared for my journey and whatever lay ahead. I had made some good friends in the monastery, but had left them behind and was now on my own. My family was waiting for me, but did not know much of my struggle the past couple years. It felt strange to be going back home after being away so many years. I knew the plane was headed for Rochester, but I did not know where I was headed after that. I thought over all I had experienced in the last nine years and wondered how I could use my learning in the next chapter of my life. I again asked God to help me find a soft landing.

I thought again of Father Brendan’s sermon about the habit being the most important part of us and realized that I had never been able to accept this. I also thought of another sermon he gave in which he talked about our interactions with others as being like ripples in a lake. Even though they might be quite small they travel quite far. We may have an effect on people beyond our expectations and may indirectly affect people we never meet. I had always wanted to be helpful to people as a goal in my life. I would just have to find another way to do it and was ready to explore the alternatives.

There were people in the monastery I was glad to leave behind and others I would miss. I trusted I was making the right decision and asked God to guide me in my next steps. I finally felt I had control of my destiny, although was not sure what it would be. As the plane touched down in Rochester, I took a deep breath and walked out of the plane ready for whatever awaited me.

Excerpt from my book, Young Man of the Cloth, available from Amazon in paperback and ebook format.

Seventh Seminary Reflection

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I began my year at West Springfield as a new monk, fresh from the novitiate, eager to get on with my training in philosophy. My understanding of the Rule was that we would learn to reflect on God, and the Passion of Jesus in particular, and then share our reflection with the world in various ways.

I was disappointed to find that Our Mother of Sorrows Monastery seemed to me even more isolated than St. Paul’s in Pittsburgh. We did have a country club and golf course next door, but, of course, it was not available to us. We also had little contact with the outside world, other than occasional interaction with benefactors and brief interchanges with others on our trips to places such as Boston.

I felt that living in a hothouse for a year was long enough, but here we were continuing to be shut away and protected from the world. Part of the sheltered life I wrote off as related to the isolation of West Springfield. I also had a sense that our superiors either did not trust us to stay in balance with our vows, or did not trust their indoctrination of us. I never liked being considered fragile. I also never heard a good explanation for why it was necessary for us to live such a protected life, or at least one which made sense to me.

When I learned we would be moving to Long Island, I started to fantasize about greater educational and social opportunities. I was aware of the extensive educational and cultural resources there and was ready for our Liberal Arts education to finally become liberal and well rounded. I left West Springfield looking forward to a vacation but also excited about the prospect for a much richer education.

Excerpt from my book, Young Man of the Cloth, available from Amazon in paperback and ebook format,

A Missed Funeral

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One evening after dinner in early December, I was called to Father Cassian’s room. This did not seem unusual since his room was right next to mine, and we sometimes discussed philosophy and history. He seemed in a more serious mood than usual. After very brief small talk, he said he had some bad news. My grandmother had died earlier that day and would be buried later that week.

The news was not particularly surprising. She had been ill for years and had been taking medication for a heart condition, although she had never been hospitalized. I remembered her house as the first place I had lived. My father was in the navy during World War II when I was born. My mother and I lived with my grandparents while my father was overseas. When my father came home, my mother tried to introduce us. Instead of going to him, I ran to the picture of my father, insisting that this was my father rather than the live man before me.

I thought for a long time that I had two mothers.  I did not understand when my father returned from the war and our family moved to our own house. My mother loved me, but also set limits. My grandmother just loved me. After we moved, we frequently visited my grandparents, and I often stayed with them for part of the summer.

My grandmother was a serene person. She always spoke quietly and had a kind word for everyone. Even though I was the third grandchild, I felt special to her. I was the only one who lived with her.  She often called me a “minx.”  I was particularly fond of hiding the agitator cap from her washing machine. Although she would try to scold me, she could not hold back her laugh very long and would soon be well into stories about my uncles’ antics. We would then be off to the cellar to see where the cap may have been “lost.” When I grew older, we also had our secret beer in the kitchen after all the relatives had been served their drinks. My grandmother was present at all the major events of my life.  I remembered pictures of her at my baptism, first communion, and confirmation. Her presence was not prominent, but quietly reassuring.

One of my last memories of her was at my grandfather’s funeral. He had been suffering from a heart condition, but insisted on shoveling snow and had died suddenly in the process. Although sad on this occasion, my grandmother was filled with the good memories of her years with him. She let him go quietly as she had lived with him in peace.

I had not seen my grandmother for over a year, since entering the novitiate, and she was too ill to travel to my Profession. Still, I always thought of her as being there for me. It was hard to imagine her as gone. My ultimate refuge was no more.

Funerals in our family had always been a time of family gathering and mutual support. Everyone dropped work, school or other commitments to come together to comfort each other. There were family stories about rooms full of sleeping children, patrolled by an aunt/nun, while the adults talked into the night.

My first thought at hearing about my grandmother’s death was of being together with my family in grief and comfort. They would all share their memories of my grandmother. Others would hear of my shared beer in the kitchen and I would hear of their experiences of closeness with her.

I told Father Cassian I would like to go to her funeral. He told me the policy was that students were only allowed to attend funerals of immediate family members. I told him my grandmother was like my mother and I had lived with her until I was three.  He told me the finances of the Order did not allow for such travel. I said I was sure my family would be willing to pay my travel expenses. Father Cassian reminded me that, since my vows, the Order was now my family and I could not go to the funeral.

I left his room in shock, not expecting this turn of events. I went to my room and wept in desolation. I was convinced I should be at the funeral. I had no money, even to call my family.  I considered hitchhiking the several hundred miles from West Springfield to Dunkirk and thought I could get to the funeral on time.

I was angry at Father Cassian and thought he lacked understanding. Life suddenly seemed unfair. How could anyone keep me from being with my family to say good-bye to my grandmother? As my anger subsided, I realized I had reached a major crisis point. I knew I needed to make a choice between my family and the monastic life I had worked so long to reach. I also knew, if I went to the funeral, I would not come back to the monastery.

I walked for hours in the monastery garden, weighing the possibilities. I did not feel I could turn to anyone to help me with the decision, even Gerry and John. The choices were clear. The implications were not. The mystique of the monastic life weighed against my love for my grandmother. No matter what I decided, part of me would die.

My first adult decision was to accept the director’s authority and to stay at the monastery, rather than attending the funeral. But I felt I was betraying my grandmother and she was being ripped from me rather than going quietly, as was the custom in our family.

At Mass on the morning of the funeral, all of the monks were asked to pray for me, my grandmother and our family. Although this was some comfort, the loneliness was not lessened much. The bonds of the religious community were too new to reassure me. I remained confused and uncertain of my decision. It was now too late to attend the funeral.

Excerpt from my book. Young Man of the Cloth, available from Amazon in paperback and ebook format.

Sixth Seminary Reflection

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We had made it through stage two of our training. In the space of one year we had completed our “basic training” in the religious life and were ready to resume our formal education. As with military basic training, I felt we were thrown into the daily schedule with little preparation. We had no way of knowing what to expect. Some of us floundered for a while before adjusting, and some left, finding the rigors of religious life too overwhelming.

Holy Cross had isolated us from the rest of the world, with the exception of visits from our families and our visits home for Christmas and summer vacation. The novitiate isolated us even further. No family visits were allowed during our year in Pittsburgh. We did get out for walks on occasion and did have one visit to the Passionist Nuns, but otherwise seldom interacted with anyone not part of the monastic community.

We were introduced into religious life in a “hot house” environment, protected from all outside influences, seen as shielding us from the distractions of the outside world. I found the isolation difficult at times and would have preferred to compare ideas and consider things in their context.

I did gain a good understanding of the vows we took at the end of the novitiate.  I knew what I was getting into and accepted it at face value. The life we were to live appeared quite strict, although we knew there would be some modifications once we resumed our formal course of study.

Although never stated directly, I had a sense from Father Augustine Paul that there were changes in the wind.  Our way of life would probably be updated from the nineteenth to the twentieth century. I was optimistic about the possible changes.

It was my opinion that the most difficult part of our training was behind us. I was looking forward to learning about philosophy. I had little idea what the classes would be like but hoped to learn about the various philosophers through the ages and read what they had to say. I was ready for the next step and anxious to get on with our training. I felt lighthearted and looking forward to our adventures and the new learning which awaited us. 

Excerpt from my book, Young Man of the Cloth, available from Amazon in paperback and ebook format.

Fifth Seminary Reflection

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It seemed strange to have the first phase of my seminary days drawing to a close. It was sometimes hard to imagine that I had been here for almost six years and was about ready for new adventures.  I had come to the seminary on the verge of adolescence. My decision to enter the seminary had been made as a child. Looking back on it, I realized I did not have the maturity to make an informed decision.  However I had made it and had stuck with it for six years. I had four years of high school and two years of college behind me. Despite having received an associate’s degree, I still did not feel much like a college student. I thought I had received a fairly good education but often felt that there were parts of my life missing. 

Most of us, myself included, were still rather juvenile in our humor, outlook on life and attitude about girls.  Sometimes I thought we were a little stunted by being protected from the outside world and not having to face life on our own terms or to have to rely on our own decisions in order to make it in life.  Not having lived on the outside since eighth grade, it was hard to know what I had missed and how I would be different if I had followed a different course in my life.

When I asked my superiors about this, I was told that, in the seminary, everything was taken care of for us so we could concentrate on our spiritual development. I still had some trouble with the need to be protected and sometimes wanted a chance to prove myself on my own terms.

We would be moving from the seminary to the monastery.  I had been in the monastery in downtown Dunkirk to help with services and to visit my Uncle Bob when he was Rector of St. Mary’s Monastery. This was before he was selected to be a Provincial Consultor in Union City, New Jersey. The monastery always seemed to me very dark and quiet, the corridors smelling of paste wax and gleaming slightly from light reflected through stained glass windows.

I was usually there early in the morning and did not see much activity other than Mass being said in various small chapels. It seemed odd not to have a congregation, but to serve at my uncle’s Mass alone in a side chapel.  We did not talk much about life in the monastery, although it would have been a good chance for me to do so. 

I imagined the monastery was probably not too different from the seminary except that visitors were seldom allowed and we would not be allowed to go home for Christmas or summer vacation until we were ordained seven years later. It was a mysterious but somehow also a romantic adventure awaiting us. We would finally be experiencing the true religious life we had signed up for six years ago. I felt as ready as I could be to move on to the next phase of my life.

Excerpt from my book, Young Man of the Cloth, available from Amazon in paperback and ebook format.

My Grandfather’s Funeral

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This post is not one of the seminary reflections but took place here chronologically.

The school year proceeded about the same as the first one had. Advent arrived with preparation for Christmas.  In the last week before Christmas, I was summoned for a phone call, not usually a good sign.  My mother was on the phone and told me that my grandfather, her father, had died suddenly that morning. He had a heart condition and was taking nitroglycerine tablets. He decided to go out to shovel some snow and had a heart attack.  He was not able to get back inside for his pills and had died suddenly on the way into the house.

My parents were about to leave for Dunkirk and had arranged to pick me up after supper to go to the funeral home. I was stunned. All four of my grandparents had been alive up to then and I had never experienced the death of a close relative.

I had lived with him and my grandmother and mother while my father was away in World War II. I had little recollection of those early days except for the trains.  We would hear a train whistle in the distance, and from its direction could tell if it was the New York Central, running along Lake Erie or The Nickel Plate which stopped at the end of Park Avenue, about half a block from my grandparents’ house. My grandfather  and I would bundle into the car, rush down to the tracks and watch freight trains pass or passenger trains stop briefly to load or unload passengers or packages. I especially liked to watch the train start up again.  A billow of smoke rose from the smoke stack and the train let out a single chug while the wheels moved only slightly.  After several of these starts, the train began its forward movement and was underway.  We would also go to the other end of Park Avenue  to the dock to watch the fishing boats come and go.

When I was older and we had moved to Rochester, I would sometimes stay with my grandparents for a week during the summer. I would go with my grandfather to his drug store, watch him sort pills and go down to the cellar with him for supplies.  I would also help sweep the floors and dust candy cases. I wished he had a soda fountain like some drug stores did at the time. His candy counter had jars of various penny candy.  The simplest, but in my eyes, the most exotic, was a jar of rock candy.  I knew it was just sugar and water, but somehow it fascinated me.  When it was time to close up the store for the day, he would always ask me if I wanted to pick out some candy before we left, and I always picked out the rock candy, a band of clear crystal sugar on a string.

I recalled these memories on the way to the funeral home.  He had been retired for about five years and had enjoyed every day of his retirement as he had his earlier life. It was hard to find a parking place. He was loved by everyone and it seemed everyone had come to say good bye.

Inside were my uncles, aunts, cousins and people I had seen coming and going at my grandparents’ house. Some I knew and some I did not. Near the casket sat my grandmother, uncharacteristically quiet and sad.  She was usually the one making sure everyone had what they needed.  This time everyone was hovering over her in case there was something she needed.

When I finally reached her, we stood and hugged each other for quite a while, sharing our tears for my lost grandfather and her lost husband.  Despite all the people there, it was as if we were alone in her kitchen for a few moments with no one around.

My tears continued as I approached to kneel before his casket surrounded by what seemed like endless  flowers.  He looked like himself although a little powdery.  I had never seen him that still.  He was always telling a story or laughing at someone else’s story.  Even when asleep in his chair he always snored to let us know he was still with us in his own way.

Later in the evening at my grandmother’s house, everyone told stories about my grandfather and his observations about life. He did not have the literary gifts of Samuel Clemens, or at least never showed them if he did.  However he did have a quick wit and knack for comical observation of human foibles which kept us all entertained. 

Someone wondered whether my grandfather had ever become angry in his life.  Everyone stopped to think but had trouble coming up with anything. My Aunt Helen did recall once when he had told my uncles Dick and Charlie to stop running through the house.  When they kept it up, he got out of his chair to chase them, but then broke into his usual laughter, realizing he could not catch them anyway.  That seems to have been the closest he ever came to being angry.

Despite his placid nature, he must have been quite determined. He was born one of eight children to immigrant Irish parents who originally came to the coal fields in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania.  They made their way to Belfast, New York, building a farm house on top of a rocky hill where it was difficult to walk.  I could not imagine how they ever broke the soil to grow anything. I think they had mostly cows.

My grandfather somehow made his way to the University of Buffalo Pharmacy School from which he graduated. He worked in a drug store in Niagara Falls where he met my grandmother and eventually bought a drug store in Dunkirk.  He provided well for my grandmother and their six children. I think the best thing he left them was his sense of humor and ability to manage whatever came his way in life without the smallest complaint.

I was grateful that I had a chance to be with him, especially on the afternoons in his drug store.  I never really knew what he thought.  I don’t know whether he worried about his health or about his family, what he thought about current events or whether there was anyone in the world he did not like.  He never spoke ill of anyone.  He did see foibles, his own as well as everyone else’s, and had a way of seeing their comical side, his included, without ever being critical of anyone.

I went to the funeral the next day, Christmas Eve.  My Uncle Dick, my grandfather’s second son said the funeral mass solemnly and with more emotional control that I could imagine, especially knowing we were saying good-bye to a family treasure. I served as an altar boy with my brother and had to fight back tears several times during the Mass. At the cemetery, my uncle repeated the words from the last hymn at church, “In Paradisum, Deducant Te Angeli”- May the Angels lead you into Paradise. I no longer had control of my tears.  

We had dinner at Rusch’s Restaurant, owned by my father’s cousins, and returned to my grandparents’ house where Christmas Eve had lost its charm for me.  I did have my traditional beer with my grandmother in the kitchen.  Neither of us could think of anything to say.  After we were done, we hugged and shared our tears for our mutual loss. Later we opened our presents as usual in the front parlor, but no one sat in my grandfather’s chair.  I glanced at it from time to time, always saddened by its emptiness.

I returned to the seminary for collation although I supposed I did not have to. I could have stayed to eat with my relatives the many foods left by neighbors and friends. Since it was Advent and the eve of a feast day, it was not yet time to celebrate Christmas.  This collation consisted of hard boiled eggs, baked beans, string beans, bread and butter with milk to drink and fruit cocktail for dessert. I decided I had made the wrong choice and should have stayed with my relatives for dinner.  Before eating, Father Brendan asked everyone to keep my grandfather, me and our family in their prayers.  My tears returned and I decided I was not very hungry anyway.

The midnight Christmas Mass was again quite a production.  Afterwards, I went back to my grandmother’s where she was cooking bacon and eggs as if nothing had happened, although I knew that inside, things were not the same for her and never would be.

The next night I was back at the seminary, and most of the week managed to get lost in the Christmas week festivities and seemingly endless games of euchre and hearts. Classes were soon back in full swing and I was back to reading for class when I had to and reading war novels when I had the chance. 

From my book, Young Man of the Cloth, available in paperback or digital format from Amazon

Fourth Seminary Reflection

I had completed one year of my seminary training and was gearing up for the next year. I had expected to be living in a religious community focused on prayer. That was no surprise.

I was surprised by the isolation from the rest of the world with no radio, television or newspapers. I would not say I was much of a cosmopolitan. In the seventh and eighth grades we had often been assigned news stories to listen to, watch or read to make us aware of world events and the larger context in which we lived. Now we were being told to ignore all that and concentrate on what we were spoon-fed by our teachers. It seemed a little odd and restrictive to me. I could not understand why we needed to be sheltered from the world and its ways which we had been exposed to up until we entered the seminary. I was not much of a rebel and accepted the explanation of our superiors as their view, keeping my own thoughts to myself.

Their efforts did not keep me from discovery of my sexuality which did not seem to fit into their plan from what I could see. There was general reference to sexuality in discussion of the commandments with vague allusions to mortal sin. From my experience, sexual feelings seemed quite natural and nothing I actively pursued. Quite the opposite. But they occurred persistently as did other urges-hunger, thirst and the need for sleep. I was confused about why giving into your sexual urges was made out to seem so bad. Then again, other mortal sins such as missing Mass and eating meat on Friday did not make much sense to me either.

I had learned what was expected of me and complied for the most part. What was missing was an understanding of why we had to do things a certain way or think in certain ways. We were told how to act and think which I accepted on the surface. Still there was that part of me, “Joey Why”, which made me question everything.

Although I did not get satisfactory answers to my questions, none of the things I wondered about seemed earthshaking and worth antagonizing the superiors over. That is with the exception of sexuality and mortal sin, topics which seemed taboo. I thought I might be able to figure out these mysteries on my own eventually. I recalled my father’s words when I asked too many questions at home. “Because I said so.”  

Excerpt from my book, Young Man of the Cloth, available from Amazon in paperback and ebook fformat.

Third Seminary Reflection

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Although I had not thought much about growing up, I was suddenly faced with the prospect of moving in that direction. I was starting to gain some competence in sports and had learned the value of practice and perseverance. I was finally starting to master something I could feel good about. I was also starting to face issues of morality. Up to recently, religion class had just been a series of memorized lessons. I had never done anything I saw as having serious consequences. Suddenly, I was faced with the moral consequences of my newly discovered sexuality. I had never thought of my actions as having much meaning before, but now a brief act could have eternal consequences.

It was also starting to dawn on me that my former life was gone. I was suddenly no longer a child with the freedom and lack of responsibility of childhood, I was torn away from everything I was use to, even though I was here through my own choice. There were times I wondered what made me think I was capable of making such a serious choice at age thirteen.

Excerpt from my book, Young Man of the Cloth, available from Amizon ain paperback and ebook format.