In catechism class we learned about eternal life. After we died our souls would be dispatched to one of three places for eternity ---
Hell, an unfathomably horrific place, sort of like a fiery cave underground, policed by the devil himself and his horny thugs;
Heaven, unimaginably beautiful, soft and cloudy (the good kind of clouds) in the glorious company of God, the angels, all the saints as well as those worthy friends and relatives (grandparents, mostly) who’d gone before us; ---or---
Purgatory, a sort of holding pen for lost souls --- unbaptized infants (basically anybody who was not a Catholic) and those who’d sinned, but not too badly (someone who’d stolen candy bars from Winkie’s Five & Dime for example, or called her brothers bad names, even if they so deserved it). Purgatory was the place where your soul went while God and St. Peter decided what to do with you. Chances were good that you’d wind up in heaven, but first you had to suffer for a while. To be honest, as a young child I thought the word was “prick-a-tory” and envisioned the evil being routed from my fluffy little white soul with a safety pin --- poke, by poke, by poke.
For my first few years as a practicing Catholic (what, exactly was I practicing for? So many unanswered questions!) I knew for sure that I was headed for purgatory, also known as “limbo,” when I died. Of course my death was to take place sometime far off in the future; for death was something that happened to old people. Great aunt Thecla was 96 when she died (an Old Maid!) and I’d already figured out that in the year 2000 I’d be 49 --- old, but not that old.
When I was 12 I was to receive my third sacrament --- Confirmation --- the one where the archbishop slaps your cheek to make sure you’re strong enough to become a “soldier of Christ.” The two appealing aspects of this sacrament were that first of all you had to have a sponsor --- sort of like a godparent, someone who would look out for your spiritual well being and give you a nice present on this momentous occasion. Whereas godparents could usually be counted on to honor you on your birthdays and remember you at Christmas (and mine still do even though “aunt” Peggy is 87 now and “uncle” Frank is 91 and completely blind) a Confirmation sponsor could only really be expected to come across with a nice gift just the once --- on your Confirmation Day. I chose my sponsor carefully. She was a distant relative on my mother’s side (through marriage) who had good taste and a bit of money. Her present to me was one of those shoulder bags, popular in the ‘60’s, that looked like a fisherman’s tackle basket. I was delighted!
The other cool thing about being confirmed was that you got to choose a saint, as another sort of sponsor, and add that saint’s name to your own. A couple of years earlier my sister, Jennifer Ann, had chosen the exotic St. Philomena --- a virgin martyr at the age of 14! I was impressed by Jenny’s daring, but felt smug about my more ordinary choice when in 1969 the Catholic Church tried to purge certain “folk” saints like Philomena (along with other, better known saints like St. Christopher. We couldn’t bear to part with him and so we kept him on as “Mr.” Christopher after that) from the ranks of “real” saints. I believe we hid the gorgeous statue of Philomena in a closet while waiting to hear what her status would be. I always felt that getting rid of all those saints would be a big mistake on the part of the church --- they would take away the fun part of being a Catholic and the prettiest and most comprehensible prayer book, “The Lives of the Saints,” would become redundant. My decision was between St. Rita and St. Rose --- and it was not an easy one to make. I wanted my protectress to be a beautiful woman who had suffered mightily and both those lovely young ladies had. In the end, St. Rose of Lima won out. Her self-imposed penance was a to carry a huge wooden cross around on her shoulder. St. Rita flogged herself daily and it occurred to me that some days she might go easy on the flogging (which could possibly be a sin like pride or something) but the burden of St. Rose’s cross was the same day after hot and dusty Peruvian convent day. And that thrilled me. Thus I became Mary Elizabeth “Betsy” Rose with a stylin’ new purse on my way to purgatory (and I don’t mean the ski resort).
However, I suddenly got re-routed by a creepy old priest who heard my confession on the eve of Confirmation Day. He warned me that if I did not divulge to him the lascivious details of my impure thoughts and then went ahead and received the sacrament the next day I would have a mortal sin on my soul and that if I died suddenly I would go STRAIGHT TO HELL. In my 12 years I’d only heard of one child who’d died (a boy we knew called Randy who went to the zoo with us one day and threw up after eating one piece of candy. I knew then there was something wrong with that kid) so I took my chances with the “bad confession”--- mortal sin and all --- hoping to make up for it with novenas, indulgences and penance possibly involving crawling up Holy Hill on my hands and knees someday before I died. I went through with the face slapping --- it was actually a mere, gentle flick on the cheek and, bless me father for I have sinned, kept the tackle basket.
I’m still alive so I don’t yet know if the priest was right about my final destination and I long ago stopped caring about what will happen to my soul after death. I believe that our creator wants us to be happy, to learn something in our lifetimes, to use our talents, to expend our energy and to love one another. That’s my “religion” now. As far as purgatory goes --- I’m already there. Every time I have a CT scan I spend the next week secretly hoping I’ll hear the words “cancer free” or “remission” when I see my oncologist. Last week she said, “You’re doing great! Your cancer is very stable.” I straddle that line between heaven and hell trying to keep my balance. Just like you do.
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