Change

“Change your ways mister!” seethed Sister Isadore. The wrinkle faced elderly nun was frothing around her taut lips as she tried to comprehend the rationale of a twelve-year-old boy with his mass cassock on backwards. Altar boys were a chosen few and I was quickly losing my status for having put the sacred garment on backwards and feigning some lewd aboriginal dance. Her initial boney-fingered slap across my face caught me off guard, as she seemed to appear from out of nowhere. Now her eighty-year-old pointer finger was jabbing me like a jousting saber as she scolded me with words and spittle. It was not my character to act out and desecrate the robes I so yearned to wear. But in a moment of weakness fed by sugar cookies and holiday fervor, I lost myself to the bliss of childish elation. It was the end of school for the Christmas holidays and I had just served mass for Father Hay.

“Freddy-me-boy you’re gonna make a good priest someday,” Father would say after every mass I served. The old Irish priest with the heavy brogue and bushy eye brows was my idol, and I his favorite altar boy. Other boys were jealous when I was pulled from school to serve at funerals or made money at weddings. That old priest and I were friends. His sincere, gentle heart always spoke with kindness; he had a way of making me feel valuable. As Sister Isadore hobbled away from the sacristy I could see Fr. Hay in the other room pretending he was hiding behind the door in fear, smiling at me, pinching his lips and twisting his finger in the air mocking the old nun. I laughed through my tears at his antics and he quickly gave me the “shoosh” sign so the old curmudgeon wouldn’t return and catch both of us. Instead he came into the room put his hand on my shoulder and hugged me and said “Freddy-me-boy I just bet you’ll be the priest at her funeral.” His smile lit up the room as we both sighed like we’d just dodged a tornado. From his pocket he pulled out a brand new Kennedy half-dollar and laid it in my hand saying “Merry Christmas, now git before she comes back.”

As I walked I marveled at the shiny new coin that had only recently been minted. I tried to not think about Sister Isadore but my face was still hot where she’d slapped me and my eyes were still itchy from crying. I put the coin deep in my pocket and ran the rest of the way home.

“Change your ways mister!” Its funny how those words still burn in my ears forty-four years later. When the topic “change” was selected, for a brief moment I saw Sister Isadore’s finger in my chest. Change is such a difficult concept to accept and even more so for a youngster entering the world of reality. I surmise that in some deep, subconscious chamber I’ve harbored her words for my entire life.

I have lived many changes, some profound and others quite simple. But I seem to be able to see them coming a lot better than I did Sister Isadore. And despite my contempt for her seemingly hateful manner, I’ve heeded her words more than she probably imagined. In retrospect I see that every thing we say imprints those around us. I’m sure my own children will some day pause to reflect on me and what I was to them. I only hope and pray they see the merry, gentle-hearted prankster Father Hay more often than the grouch of Isadore. And I hope my warm hugs then will sustain them long after I’m gone.

I wonder where that coin resides today…