The Church Store

A couple of years ago I was back home in Walnut Creek, going to get Starbucks with my dad. We passed by our local Safeway and Blockbuster, the same ones we’d passed a million times in my childhood. My dad nodded his head towards the opposite side of the street and pointed: “Do you remember the church store?”

When I was growing up, my dad used to take me and my older brother to church every Sunday. My mom stayed home with my baby brother and sister, but she wasn’t Catholic so she wouldn’t have gone anyway. I still don’t know why we went at all because the only time my dad is religious is when we would have friends over for dinner and he would ask them to lead us in saying grace, after asking that we all join hands. After enjoying the horrified face of our friend he would burst into laughter, saying, “You should have seen your face!” Nonetheless, we got into our Sunday’s best and headed to Saint Isadore.

On the way to church, we would take my dad’s government work car, an IROC Camaro, which was strictly forbidden for personal use, especially with family members. We would drive down our main neighborhood street and my dad would use the car’s public address system to talk to an unsuspecting morning walker on the street: “Excuse me, ma’am, we don’t allow spandex in this area, take your skintight pants to another neighborhood” – and then we’d zoom off.

Down on one of the main roads of our town, all of the sudden he would start furiously swerving the car from right and left, saying there was a family of ants crossing the street and we’d almost hit them. Finally one day we got pulled over. I heard the sirens and was scared as anything, but my dad sure wasn’t – he almost looked like he was looking forward to this, like he was excited about it. Meanwhile, I thought he was going to get arrested – I thought we were all going to get arrested. “License and registration please”. My dad gets his wallet out of the glove box. “Is there a reason you were swerving your vehicle sir?” “Officer, I swear I saw something in the road, it was like a flash, there one second and then gone.” “So you had to keep swerving repeatedly?” “There were tons of them, lots of flashes.” “Right”. My dad opens his wallet and starts going through his cards and the contents one by one, until he reaches his US Customs identification and – “Is that a badge?” “Why yes sir, it is”. And just as if he’d stopped us to tell us he liked our car – “You have a nice day sir”. It was the coolest thing ever! We swerved all the way to church.

When we first started going, we would get there on time to get a good seat, and we’d sit close to the front and move into the center of the pew so others could move in easily and fill the aisle. None of us ever listened to a single sermon, not even my dad. He was too busy trying to make us laugh. He would squeeze that part of your leg right above your knee that tickles and makes your knee jerk. When everyone sang hymns together, he wouldn’t sing the words but would make some god awful noise that he somehow made blend into the music.

About half way through mass, there is a “Pleased to meet you” exchange between everyone, where you turn to the people in front of and behind you, and the ones on your right and left, and shake their hand and say, “Pleased to meet you”. I remember thinking this was an odd place for an introduction, why wouldn’t they have everyone shake hands when we first got there? But my dad finally told me that it was “Peace be with you”, not “Pleased to meet you”. Personally I thought “Pleased to meet you” made so much more sense – you were shaking hands after all, even if it wasn’t in the beginning of mass. Whether I was pleased or peace, I didn’t like that part of church because kids don’t shake hands, at least they don’t want to, but you’d have some old man with sweaty palms reach his hand over to you, and you had to shake it. Of course this served as more amusement for my dad.

Nearing the end of our church-going days, we would get there late, stand in the back for fifteen minutes, and then leave. Sometimes my dad would even let my brother and me go to the playground outside while he stepped into church just to duck out five minutes later. When we did stand in the back with him and our required fifteen minutes were up, he would give us both a look that said, Let’s get the hell out of here. And we did.

One of the main reasons I was so happy that we started leaving early was because we would miss communion. Communion is when you all file out of the pews and walk up to the priest standing at the front of the church and he hands out a thin flat white circular wafer. The wafer represents The Body of Christ. The priest blesses it, raises it above your head and says, The Body of Christ, and you would then say Amen. I wasn’t sure if it was a question or not, it sounded like he was asking if you wanted it, like, “The Body of Christ?” So in case he was asking, I would nod my head just enough so he would know I was giving him an answer and not being rude, but not enough that my dad could see and ask why I was nodding. One of the things you have to do to as a Catholic is have your First Holy Communion. You had to take some class for it at the church on Saturdays, so I was already mad at it. I thought Sunday and Sunday only was God’s day. Anyway, as our First Holy Communion approached, we had a practice run in our class. One of the teachers gave us each a “Body of Christ” and we were all supposed to take it. They instructed us to let it dissolve in our mouths. I didn’t like the sound of that. So we all placed the wafers in our mouths, and about seven seconds later the whole class had turned to me, staring in horror. I had vomited all over my desk, and on my First Holy Communion lesson book. It wasn’t so much the taste, it didn’t really taste like much of anything, but after I put the wafer on my tongue, it didn’t start dissolving like they’d said, instead it got stuck to the roof of my mouth and held on for dear life. Since I was already a chronic vomiter (every dentist visit), it was no surprise to me that this happened. But I didn’t understand how I was the only one. I’ll never forget the look in everyone’s eyes, especially the teachers’, like I had stood up and said I hated God. I guess in a way this was worse - I had literally rejected the body of Christ.

So of course that was the first of many times I threw up in the name of the lord. The second time was at home. The teachers gave my parents some wafers to take home so I could practice again. I remember thinking how messed up that was, Hey, here’s something that makes you puke, go ahead and have some in your free time at home! I mean I had to go to the dentist, but did I have to do this? So I threw up in my parents’ bathroom with the first take home wafer, and they knew that practice time was over. Now we concentrated all efforts on preparing me for my First Holy Communion with different techniques, like visualization tips, thoughts on different placements of the wafer in my mouth. I could hear them pleading in their heads, Please just get through it this once without puking, please please please. We had relatives from out of town coming to this event! I didn’t want to puke just as much as they didn’t want me to, but we all knew it wasn’t looking good.

I don’t remember anything that happened in the hours leading up to my First Holy Communion, I probably blacked out from nerves and fear. Was I going to throw up all over the church floor? On one of my classmates? Or God forbid, the priest??? All were fair game. I’m sure my parents were dreading this moment more than I was – everyone would see that it was their child that housed the devil! My true identity would be revealed for all to see!

It was time. The line was forming. I was getting closer to my religious fate. Was I with God, or against him? I approached the priest: “The Body of Christ?” Well, actually, no thank you, but I did my mini nod and took the wafer in my sweaty hands. I don’t think I’d ever had sweaty hands before, and I’d like to think that they were trying to help me out that day, telling me to quickly pretend to put the wafer in my mouth and they’ll dissolve it themselves. But alas, their message didn’t register in time, and I put the wafer in my mouth, and turned to walk back to my seat. Did I make it? I did. I made it back to my seat and through the rest of the First Holy Communion Mass.

And the second it was over, I went to the bathroom and threw up. The wafer had sat on the roof of my mouth for the last ten minutes of the mass, and then finally started to fall apart and drop down to my tongue just seconds before I made it to the bathroom. The feeling of it falling apart, all slimy and soft, was worse than it being stuck to the roof of my mouth. But somehow I managed to make it through. I don’t think my parents have ever been prouder.

I continued to throw up pretty much every Sunday for the rest of my church going career. Sometimes in the church bathroom, sometimes on the black concrete of the parking lot, and one time in the entrance area/foyer of the church. Only a couple of people ever saw me throwing up, since after communion people went back to their seats while I hightailed it to the exit with a mouth full of puke. I remember a few times my dad would see me gagging, trying to hold it in until I found a clear area to spew, and while I was trying to hold in vomit, he was trying to hold in laughter. He can finally laugh about it in front of me today, and he and my brother like to do imitations of me – “The Body of Christ – hooooeeeh”(puking noise).

The good thing about all of this? Well I’m sure it’s no coincidence that after months of continuous vomiting, that’s when we started to leave church early. Right before communion, of course. So we’d be standing in the back, my brother and I waiting for the telling look from my dad letting us know it was go time, and the three of us would sneak out the door. My dad would try to wait until the very beginning of communion so we could duck out quietly and unnoticed while people were getting up from their seats to line up. But sometimes we just left any old time.

The second the church doors had closed behind us, my dad knew what was coming. It was the same question every week: “Are we going to the church store?” And always the same answer: “Of course we are”.

The church store was our reward for going to (a fifteen minute) mass. I’ve never looked forward to anything as much in my life. It was a candy and snack store – every kid’s dream. We spent more time in the church store than we did in church, going from counter to counter trying to decide on our treat. We could only pick one item (in addition to a soft drink), and on special occasions, two (I’m imagining my First Holy Communion was a twofer deal). I was always scared I was going to pick the wrong thing and regret it later, like pick Cool Ranch Doritos instead of grape Big League Chew or Fun Dip, and I’d have to wait another week to fix my mistake. Sometimes we’d get Nerds, which were strictly prohibited in our house because they got stuck in the carpet, but I would occasionally pretend I’d forgotten that rule and ask my dad if I could get them, to which he’d reply, “Just don’t tell Mom”. The church store was a magical place, our own childhood heaven.

Slowly our church trips became shorter and shorter, and with the end of church came the end of the church store. Of course we’d go to many other candy stores in our lives, but for some reason the church store was always my favorite. And while I missed it, I realize now that what I really missed were those times with my dad. It was never about church or candy, it was about getting to hang out with him. My dad spent all his free time with us growing up, but there was something special about those first few hours every Sunday – the illegal, crazy car rides, laughing in church, sneaking out early, picking out unauthorized treats. We were breaking innocent childhood rules, and it felt great. For a moment in time, we ruled the world.

So we’re in my dad’s car and I’m looking at the church store. My favorite place as a kid was, in fact, a tiny old beat up liquor store, sitting between a dry cleaner and a Chinese restaurant. I thought maybe that should make me sad, that what I remembered to be the gateway to heaven was really just an old hole in the wall that sold cigarettes and beer. But it didn’t. I actually started smiling.

“Of course I remember the church store”.