“Lost Retainers”

by Morgan Hodoroski

 What are years of Catechism and creeds and communions for, if not to find your lost

retainers? Because I am fourteen years old, newly Confirmed, and desperately in need of a

miracle. It’s a simple three-step process, really:

(1) Grope distractedly, then frantically, over and between the cushions for that red-black

container;

(2) Settle back against the couch, cold dread washing over;

(3) Offer up a rusty but sincere “Our Father” on a quiet Wednesday night—and maybe

ask St. Anthony for some help (just to be safe).

Prayer is a special connection with Our Lord, the priests at Mary Mother of God

emphatically say. It’s just you and Him, and He always listens. And well, God, do I need some

divine intervention.

I invoke my baptismal birthright.

Yes, my special brand of praying began at the font. Unintelligible murmurs whispered

over my head, fingers tracing the sign of the cross across smooth baby skin. The priest’s words

becoming my own, a Catholic heirloom passed down with holy water. Bound to the church,

bound to its language.

Catechism would give form and direction to these mutterings. Those Tuesday and

Thursday evenings, huddled in a classroom lacking AC in the church’s basement, the

instructors—volunteers committed to instilling the Catholic spirit in today’s youth—rallied

weary elementary school students into monotone prayer. It was a weekly routine, trying to turn

repetition into real rapture, “The Lord’s Prayer,” “The Hail Mary,” both “Apostle” and “Nicene

Creed” tumbling and bumbling from our mouths. Lips and teeth floundered around “heaven” and

“sinners” and “forgive.” I would oftentimes glance sideways at my fellow students, some drowsy

and distracted, others seemingly arrested by divine devotion, and I began to worry: Did my

tongue-tied fumblings betray my lack of faith?

Still, I kept up the charade, stumbling through confessions and communions until it

became muscle memory. Bowed head, rigid back, lips pursed and brows furrowed in

introspection—thinking about God, then thinking about myself and the fly scurrying along the

pew. And, I came to a rather terrifying realization: I didn’t need to pray; I just needed to perform.

Of course, as any concerned Catholic worrying about salvation would do, I talked to my

Grandma, a devout church-goer and expert in praying. (She has a collection of rosaries that rivals

any parishioner). I told her that I wanted to quit Catechism, that I was missing something—some

transcendent faith that separated the indomitable Christian from the doomed atheist. I may have

started crying, for she took my hands, steepling hers around mine, and whispered “Just listen.”

And, on a cold Sunday morning, dawn rays refracting through stained glass kitchen windows, we

prayed together.

Alas, nothing.

Sorry to disappoint. I wish I could say that changed me, that such harmonious praying

would prove epiphanic—would open my eyes, mouth, and heart to dialogue with God. But, no

such luck. From that point on, and especially following Confirmation, I became a rote, careless,

yet loyal, user. I was hooked. I prayed with abandon. I abused the system. Lost retainers,

incomplete homework, birthday wish-lists—all fodder for a clandestine “Our Father” here, a

quick “Glory Be” there. I didn’t stop; I couldn’t stop.

I followed no routine. I could go weeks without praying, an unconscious “Jesus Christ”

or “Holy shit” or “Oh my God” carelessly seethed and shouted. And then, on particularly toughdays, I would flip the switch, become an assiduous and astute Apostle. I would beg forgiveness

and prostrate myself before the Lord—if He would just make my mom not make me drive my

brother to and from track practice.

Rest assured, I must say that I’m not proud of myself. So, I guess I might as well be

self-deprecating: I am a sham, a sometime-sinner, a not-so-heaven-bound half-asser and a lazy

and lousy layman. My supplication is selfish, my steepled hands insincere. I am the type to skip

church (going on four years strong!) and, yet, be the first to kneel down for some divine TLC.

And, I’m not sure why.

Call it habit, call it faith, call it a persistent agnosticism—an attachment so deep, so

ingrained that it cannot be unraveled. I don’t say I believe in God, I don’t even think it, yet

maybe I do. Maybe He exists—maybe He’s sitting up there, somewhere, in stern yet kind

fatherly disappointment—but the soft, shaky, and shy words that fall from my lips, those gentle

though perhaps not-so-genuine invocations, are real enough for me. So, you’re stuck with me, a

fickle girl straddling the line between blasphemy and beatitude.

And, look at that, I find the retainers the following day in my coat jacket. Huh.