Offering. Basket.

The problem with friends from your adolescent years (And, KUJ, I’m talking to you.) is that they remind you of your moments of teenage folly. Being a high school teacher, I am frequently reminded of my own foibles because I see my students making the same ones I did. History does, indeed, repeat itself. Because I was such a dork/dufuss/nerd/geek/insert slur of your choice here, I am particularly empathetic to my students’ plights. Perhaps a student vomits in front of the whole class? Been there. Vomits ON THE TEACHER? Been there, too. On a LAB PARTNER? A-huh. (I had a very, very bad case of the flu my sophomore year and took out a lot of people on my way to the nurse.) Love sick to the point of complete lack of concentration? Yup. Been totally flummoxed by something the whole rest of the class understands? Right here. Been a bad friend? Got it. Been treated poorly by a friend? Yep. Loved and lost. Many times. Failed at something I really wanted? Over and over again. In short, I messed up and learned from those mess ups, as we all do.

Kuj’s comment to my last post was meant to remind me of a particularly embarrassing teenage faux pas. And it has. Here’s the story:

My family is Roman Catholic. (I suppose I am, too, but I’m not a very good one by any stretch, so don’t look here for advice on that topic.) Having been raised in the Catholic church, which is grounded in tradition, I kind of floated through religious ceremonies on autopilot. Ever got in your car at work, faded out, and came to as you pulled into your driveway? That was me at mass. I knew the routine and didn’t have to think about it. Until…

My friends were almost all Lutheran. Apparently, the Lutherans had cornered the market on Lake Park High School, and I was in the minority. Now, as far as I can tell, the Lutheran church is sort of, say, Catholic-lite. Diet Catholic, if you will. It’s really, really close to Catholicism. But it has just enough differences to TOTALLY THROW ME OFF MY GAME.

Kuj and I had a mutual friend named, say, AMElia. AMElia’s family invited me and KUJ to their church one Sunday. Now, AMElia’s family was nice. Needless to say, I didn’t want to embarrass them at their place of worship.

My Sicilian grandmother did not like the idea of me participating in any way in another religious sect. Perhaps she thought they would corrupt me? I don’t know, but I got flak from the grandparents about going to a Lutheran Church. You’d think I would be participating in animal sacrifices the way she carried on. She made me wear my cross, my Mary medal, and carry a rosary with me.

Swaddled in my Catholic armaments though I was, I didn’t want to stand out any more than necessary and embarrass AMElia’s family, so when they chose to sit in the SECOND PEW FROM THE FRONT (Who does this??) I determined that I would be honoring my own upbringing and AMElia’s family by making a good impression and being the perfect visitor. I decided blending in was the best course of action, so I asked Kuj, who is also Lutheran, to keep my religious affiliation on the DL (DL= “down low,” as in “don’t tell everyone I am Catholic and make people stare at AMElia’s family, or AMElia’s mother will likely set me on fire after the service.”).

Everything was going GREAT. Sure, the Lutherans kind of rocked it out with an electric guitar and amp while my Catholic church solemnly intoned our songs to an organ, but there were many similarities. I could ALMOST go autopilot. Until it came time to tithe.

AMElia’s church sent around an offering basket from the back of the church to the front; in contrast, my church had an offering basket on a long pole, keeping parishioners hands free, and started from front to back. AMElia’s church also took attendance, sending a clip board around; my church used the honor system, I guess. By the time the offering basket got to the second row, it was tres’ full-- and there was a sign-in sheet with a clipboard to go along with it. I was not used to handling either of these things, but I gamely took the sign-in sheet and pen. I was signing my name just as the offering basket was passed to me and…

…my grandmother’s rosary around my wrist caught the edge of the clipboard as I reached for the basket pulling my reach just a hair short of actually coming in contact with the overly full container. Thus, the tip of my finger clipped the edge of the offering basket, launching it skyward. For the briefest of moments, quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies glistened in the shaft of sunlight entering through the windows on either side of the enormous crucifix mounted behind the pulpit. Emerald dollars, brightly colored checks, and assorted white envelopes hung suspended in the air above my head. AMElia’s eyes widened in horror. Kuj, always one to recognize an opportunity for humor, snorked.

Time returned all at once and assorted coinage crashed loudly on the stone floor as paper money rained down, ticker-tape fashion, on the worshippers in the surrounding pews. The electrical guitar hit a sour chord, all eyes turned my way, and a collective gasp echoed throughout the cavernous room. It was at this precise moment that Kuj stood, pointed at me, and announced—Salem witch-hunt fashion—“She’s CATHOLIC!” To which I, in my embarrassment, shouted, “Jesus Christ, Kuj, what the hell?? I told you to keep that quiet!”

You could have heard a pin drop in that church.

Thus, I embarrassed myself, my heritage, and my church by blasphemously using Christ’s name in vain in a place of worship. AMElia’s mother obviously didn’t burn me at the stake—not because she didn’t WANT to—but because she couldn’t catch me. I, I believe the expression is, “hauled ass” out of the church.

And that, my friend, is the meaning behind Kuj’s comment of “Offering. Basket.”

Feel free to share your embarrassing teen moments here. I mean, I can't be the ONLY one to vomit on classmates and faculty, and get excommunicated from a church to which I don't even belong. Can I?