The Path of a Christian Witch Read Free

had kissed. Did that count? I assumed it did, but in this tight place, talking to this elderly priest, I was sure of nothing anymore. So, I answered, “Yes.”
    “Well, you know that is bad. Imagine how your poor mother feels, knowing her daughter did such things.”
    I was devastated. This boy had meant nothing to me. Was I no better than those other girls who were rolling up their skirts and flirting shamelessly?
    All my life I had lived according to the highest ideals possible. I tried to live with compassion—listening to others, helping others. One little mistake, and all the good I had done seemed erased in one bold stroke. I believed what the priests were saying. I lived every moment trying to follow what we were supposed to do. That is what being Catholic meant, right?
    I stumbled out of the confessional and into the school chapel. I dropped onto my knees and begged for forgiveness. Adolescence blows everything out of proportion, and you try desperately to hold on to something solid through the storm. The church had been my structure, my lighthouse. I had lost sight for a moment and I felt lost. I vowed not to fail again and to live by the rules. I promised to do everything in my power to be perfect from then on.
    I became superwoman at age fifteen. I trained in karate six hours a week, working out my anger and resentment toward myself. I was fearless and I showed no mercy. I joined every club and activity I could, partly to develop myself to the best of my ability and partly to keep me from thinking about this rotten feeling I felt inside. I slept little, praying to be better.
    As always, the only time I took a reprieve from this self-persecution was in the presence of God. I took refuge in the school chapel every Wednesday for Mass. Very few of us bothered to show up. But there was something soothing about the velvety silence, the smell of the wood polish, and the familiar words we would all say together. It was a humble setting and I could just relax there. There were no judges inside my head. I felt at peace.
    A Calling
    Sister Joan had noticed my attendance, and one day she signaled to me.
    “I was wondering if you would be interested in helping us with the Easter Vigil celebration?”
    My high school was attached to a convent where elderly nuns came to retire. Most of the teachers were secular, and the interaction between the convent side and the school side seldom occurred anymore. This was a rare occasion to go to the convent side of the chapel, which was much bigger than our school chapel. Sister Joan gathered a few girls, and we rehearsed the choreography for the readings and for several songs and psalms. We raised our hands in unison and walked reverently in our slippered feet, moving to the words of the psalms, hymns, and prayers.
    We came together on Holy Saturday for the Easter Vigil and prepared in a side room. I felt like one of the vestal virgins preparing to serve at Vesta’s temple. We were excited, but we were also filled with the solemnity of the occasion. We wore robes of white and gold, and prepared the altar for the ceremony. I felt the exhilaration of the assembly fill the chapel up to its vaulted ceiling. This was the greatest night of the year, the most holy night of all.
    The organ struck a chord and we walked in, holding smoking plates of frankincense and myrrh. The smoke rose to the heavens and filled the air with our praise. We laid down our gift of incense at the foot of the altar and bowed deeply. The priest blessed the fire and soon the whole chapel was illuminated, as hundreds of little candles were ignited. In the light of the candles, everyone looked at peace. Our voices rose to glorify God in the person of his son Jesus. We recited the litany to the saints, each name like a mantra that took us body and soul.
    As I moved my hands, I realized my whole being was absorbed with what I was doing. My breathing was even, my body free of tension. This energy flowed through me like the