Here is a true story from times past.

My first suit.

My mother has a long-cherished photograph of me wearing my first suit.  The true significance of the image is that it marks that day on which I made my first communion.  Being tall, I was placed in the back row of a group of eight young, innocent, almost cherubic boys.  I have to 'crane' my neck around the back of Paddy Faul's head, in order that the 'viewers' might actually see my face.

I'm not sure, but I think the year was 1963 when I took that particular sacrament.  I know for certain that I lived in a small village called Louth, which was located in the county of the same name; and still is.  But for that photograph, I might not remember my first communion at all; or indeed those boys that I made it with.    As is true of photographs, memories trickle back of the place where I once lived.  I remember in particular the church, which was just across the road from where we lived in rented accommodation.  My father's job required us to move from place to place every two to three years, and I never really lived in a 'family home', as I had flown the coop before my parents could afford to acquire one.  But the church across the road was a place that I was very familiar with, especially for the some of the events in my formative years.

I have more memories of my first confession than I have of the actual communion day.  We had a good teacher in Louth village school, who had put us through our paces.  And I remember in particular a nice man called Father Ferran, who worked very closely with her, and eased us along every step of the way.  He told us about the difference between the venial and the mortal sin; and all of us racked our brains to ensure that we were not bad enough to have murdered, or stolen or dishonoured God our Father.  Father Ferran told us that he was sure that none of us had committed any 'mortallers'.  We believed him - for the most part.

Still, I had to ask my mother, I think, for some suggestions, as to what I should confess to, on the evening of the day before I went into the little dark box, and bared my not so innocent soul.  She took me through the usual list - disobedience of one or both of my parents; stealing bits of money from around the house; saying the bad words and the one that covered just about everything - being bold!

On the following day, I wasn't nervous.  I was prepared, unlike one or two others, who looked like they had forgotten their sins; and were frantically trying to remember them before they faced their maker.  Still, when my turn came, when the door opened and Paddy came out, ashed-faced but relieved, I almost tripped over the slight step, as the door almost clanged shut behind me.  As I knelt in the dark, I hoped that God would not take too dim a view of me.  Of course, I was waiting for the screen to slide open, like a shutter on a camera, about to 'snap' the guilty expression on my face.  I did almost jump when the face of the priest appeared before me, and I wondered if he could recognise me, just for one moment, despite the fact that he was apparently contemplating something looking back up at him from the floor.  But it was obvious that he was prepared to listen to everything that I had to say, so I rattled of what I had learned off by heart and I asked him to bless me for having sinned, and I was very careful to stress that this was my first confession after all; and that, inwardly, I hoped he would go easy on me because of it.  I confessed to everything that I had agreed with my mother, and he rewarded me with a penance of one Our Father, and one Hail Mary.  He did not have to remind me to make my act of contrition, parts of which I still remember to this day, as he himself absolved me from my indiscretions.

Afterwards, I remember that we compared penances with one another; myself and the other boys, that is.  I was by no means the worst offender, but I'm not sure if my mother would have been proud of me or not, on that account.  Really, though, I should have wondered if God had been proud of me, and if I had been true to that particular sacrament.

I had been fitted for my first suit sometime before this happened, but it wasn't until I saw the photograph of all of us standing together outside the church, after the occasion of our first communion, that the full import of having one and wearing one struck home to me.  Fortunately, I have a sense of humour, so I would be prepared for belly-laughs now from my adult children, as they would look upon their angellic father, in short trousers, wearing a buck-toothed grin and an actual handkerchief in his breast pocket.  But it must have cost my parents a small-fortune to dress me up in it; and I believed I stood proud amongst the other boys on that day.

I do not remember too much about actually receiving the sacrament of communion for the first time.  There were no disasters, as I would certainly have remembered those.  It may not be appropriate to refer to the subject here, but I was contemplating the monetary rewards that I knew were coming to me, after the ceremony.  Oh, I know, that it should not be a reason for an innocent little chap to make his First Communion; or to even remember afterwards collecting two-shilling pieces, half-crowns, and, heavens, an actual ten-bob note, from family and friends, but when you think of having that much money in your hands, and the damage that you can do with it, being human, it was only reasonable to look forward to it.  Wasn't it?

Being a father now, I believe that it is probably a huge occasion for a parent, to be present on the day that your son or your daughter receives the body and blood of Christ for the very first time.  But if I had not received either the sacraments of Confession or Communion all of those years ago, then the occasions of our five children kneeling before God to receive His graces, would not be as truly significant; or indeed have the same impact.  I made sure that there were plenty of photographs taken, each time; and that videos were made, as much for our children, as for ourselves.  One day, perhaps some days in their future lives, their memories, too, would be jogged into activity, of memorable events in their earlier years.

My wife was  kind of hoping that the memories of these occasions would come flooding back to me, quite naturally, without prompt, or prop even.  But even when some chap or little girl appears out of the blue on my doorstep these days in a nice little suit - with long-legged trousers - or in a magnificent white gown, I stare at them, before being poked in the nether-regions my the good conscience of my wife, to put my hand into my pocket, and produce the monetary appreciation.  Even after they skip away down our drive, when I close the door, I shut out the memories of my own 'first' occasions.  It is not until my mother produces that yellowed, tattered remnant, on rare occasions - funnilly enough, one of them was when I first introduced her to my intended bride; perhaps she was trying to make her change her mind - that I recall with any degree of clarity my own thoughts and experiences.  As I stare at myself in that suit, I head back to a day in the sixties, when I lived in a small village in Ireland, on the occasion on which I made my first Holy Communnion...