Finding My Faith
How caring for my dying child carved a path to wonder, God, and the afterlife
When I was eight years old, I kicked a nun. To be fair, she was chasing my best friend, Mike, around a classroom trying to whack him with her cane. To be fair to the nun, Mike and I were doing our damnedest to make the first communion classes she taught at All Saints Catholic Church a living hell. We interrupted her lessons consistently with giggles and sarcastic statements or questions like, “that makes no sense” and, “what about the dinosaurs?” The nun, uninterested in our critiques and flustered by our persistence, relegated us to opposite ends of the classroom. Her anger only fueled more insolent behavior; we found it hilarious. So when Mike and I dared to look at one another from across the room, as we did on the day of the kicking, the result was quiet sniggering that evolved into fits of laughter. Which infuriated the nun. Which made us laugh even harder. Which is why she chased Mike around the room, attempting to physically punish his insubordination when, in defense of my best friend, I kicked her as she passed my desk.
Following the kicking, our parents somehow managed to convince the authorities at All Saints to allow us to complete our first communion classes and we graduated without further incident. When my mom told me I had to wear a child-sized…
