Even my dyed-in-the-wool Catholic mother, Mary Catherine Theresa, murmured that maybe Sister Joan "did not have a true vocation."
"She was probably forced into the convent by her crazy family," said my father, warming to his subject. "And now she is a bitter and frustrated old woman who wishes she had gotten married and had a normal life!"
I was fascinated by the turn the conversation had taken and said in a shrill voice, "Sister Joan is married to Jesus!"
Dad rolled his eyes and said, "That will do her a lot of good," giving Mom a significant look. I had no idea what that meant, but Mom turned red and left the room.
I was removed from Catholic school and we moved to Florida. Apparently, Dad didn't realize there were Catholics even in that distant state. My mother, who had never been out of New York, never recovered from the move to Sarasota, in those days a sleepy little town with unspoiled beaches, lots of orange groves and the occasional bait shop.
Mom found a Catholic church and we started going to Confession, a traumatizing experience for me because I could never think of suitable sins to report and my anxiety always made me have to go to the bathroom. There was no bathroom in the church so I had to hold it. For a very long time. I was always in agony by the time I got into the small, dark space to confess my grievous sins (always the same two: I told a lie and I was mean to my little brothers.) I rushed through my Act of Contrition and Penance, rushed to the car and then drove my mother crazy looking for an open gas station with facilities or a restaurant. Confession nights always ended with me racing to the ladies room at some sleazy gas station, finding it locked, going back to get the key, and then, at last, relief.
God was never really part of the experience.
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