In Religious Ed a nun once told us, â€śYou should always make the sign of the cross before and after you pray. The first gesture opens Godâ€™s wavelength; the second shuts it off.â€ť
I wonder if the sister knew how many nights I would lie in bed, panicked, wide awake unable to remember if I had signaled â€śRoger and out.â€ť Odds or evensâ€”heaven or hell. I crossed myself without stopping, hoping to land on evens or at least to interrupt the feed before memories of Linda Ursoniâ€™s blouse and her fully developed fifth grade breasts bubbled forth from the back of my pubescent mind.
Even as an adult, I find myself playing the same game, while hoping that someday I might cross myself one last time and be done with it, but the deep need to hide always followsâ€” in the name of the Father, and of the Son . . .