I told my mother minutes after it happened.  

            I told my mother minutes after it happened.  I bawled the entire car ride home, telling the horrid story through broken sobs.  She listened attentively, told my father about the incident that night, and then the subject closed.  Seven years later, we never talk about it.  Not my mother, not my father, not my sisters.  Nothing, not even the words of your own daughter, can break the sanctity of the church.  Two generations of my family married at that church and attended the adjacent grade school.  My mother sent Christmas cards to the priests every year, and invited them to dinner.  My sisters and I volunteered our time as alter servers.  My life revolved around that church.

            I was told not to tell the pastor, my friends, or my teachers.  This detested man came into my seventh grade classroom every Friday, to visit with my class.  And every Friday, I looked at him and tried to disguise my hatred.  He enjoyed singling me out in front of the class.  Every time he spoke to me, asked me a question, I felt like he was mocking me, daring me to tell the story.   One such morning, he came into class and started his lecture, but then stopped suddenly.  “Do you guys like me coming here and talking to you?” he asked. 

“Oh, yes! Come on, Father.  We love you!” everyone responded, a bit confused.

“No, no.  I think Emily hates me.  Do you hate me Emily? Do you want me to leave, Emily?” he asked, all eyes suddenly upon me.  I felt my face redden, and then forced a smile.

“No, of course not, Father.”

“Well, if Emily wants me to stay, then I’ll stay.” And so the two years of terror began.

            I still volunteered as an alter server, even after the incident.  Sometimes, he would confront me after mass, telling me to stop hating him, to stop playing “sick mind games”, to stop making myself a victim.  I was twelve years old, and thus believed every word he said.  If he said I was playing “sick mind games”, then I must have been.  If he said I was making myself a victim, then I must have been.  I stopped telling my mother what he said to me.  I tried to stop caring.

            I quit alter serving before entering eighth grade, and Father did not come into my classroom on a regular basis anymore.  But at school assemblies, when he would lead prayer or give a lecture for the seven hundred students, he would still single me out.  “Do you agree with that, Emily?” he would ask after reading a parable.  A buzz would go through the entire auditorium, everyone wondering who this Emily was.  I would blush and stare and my shoes.  On the weekends, at church with my family, we would hear Father say mass. There was no way to escape him. 

            I eventually moved on to a public high school, and Father moved on to a different parish.  Once I got my driver’s license, I would lie to my parents about going to mass.  Eventually, I drove an extra ten minutes to go to church in the next town.  It took me four years to forgive that man, four years to forgive my parents and their silence, and four years to renew my faith in the church.  I used to dream of being married in that church, where so much of my family’s history lies.  Now I know I will never set foot in it again. 

            Only when I moved on to a public high school did my hatred end.  Father moved on to a different parish, and I never saw him again.  But still, the damage had been done.  I no longer enjoyed youth group, I avoided reading the bible with my family, and I found myself in therapy with some anger issues. But even as I tried to pretend I was someone else, tried to pretend I was just a normal rebellious teenager, I knew I wasn’t.  I tried to stifle those feelings, tried to stifle my faith, tried to forget my roots.  I have every reason to hate the Church, to hate Catholicism, but I can’t.  I tried so hard, but still I have those iron virtues running hot through my veins. 

            I teach religious education classes at my church now, to a group of overly hyper eighth graders.  We sit in a circle and talk about faith, respect, and their twelve year-old fears.  They complain about how boring mass is and how old the priests are.  I tell them mass will be more meaningful, once they’re older, once they fully understand and appreciate the Catholic Church.  I hope my faith inspires these eighth graders, I hope my love for the Church reaches each and every one of them, and I hope they have more courage than I did at that age.  I pray to God they know how to forgive.  I pray they will always remain  “Children of God.”

I still believe.

"Priest Narrative" by Emily ZED.