When I made my First Communion about a thousand years ago, I was picked to bring the gifts to the altar.
For those who aren’t Catholic, this is a ritual performed during Mass where several people walk dow the aisle with gifts; the gift-bearers are meant to represent everyone in the church, and the gifts represent our collective struggle and worship and hope.
Only the specialist, most exceptional children are chosen for this task, obviously.
For the entire week before my communion, I floated on my wings of specialness. I was so, so excited. The dress! The gifts! The specialness!
At the rehearsal, my specialness came to a screeching halt. When I lined up next to my partner—a small blonde boy named Keith—to practice carrying the gifts, it was decided I was too tall for the job because I towered over him.
On Saturday, my daughter Rose made her First Communion…
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