“Lost Retainers”

by Morgan Hodorowski

     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 tough days, I would flip theswitch, 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.