It’s a strange commodity, this thing called grace.   It can almost knock us to our knees, as of Paul of old. Or it can be so subtle we hardly know we’ve been touched.

And grace can come second-hand or third-hand, in stories passed from one to another.  Nor is it worn threadbare by the telling.  Such is this story, old by now, having taken place around 1913, the year Americans first paid federal income tax and Mahatma Gandhi was arrested for leading India’s Passive Resistance movement.

In a wooden, rural school house, staffed by three nuns, the pastor entered a classroom to examine the First Communicants.  Pompous was he, tall and wide of girth.  He fumbled with his watch chain and looked threateningly down at those whose happiness he held in his grasp.

All went well until he called on the youngster in faded overalls. His eyes were filled with fear, dimples hidden, blonde curls damp against his forehead.  His mind, accustomed only to German at home, could not translate the questions on the Holy Trinity from the English of the Grand Inquisitor.

In anger, the pastor chastised the boy, bringing down upon his head the threat of not receiving his First Communion. Those few short weeks in spring had been an oasis in the child’s life, where, for $2.50 a week, he boarded with the Sisters in preparation for the special day.  Standing before his classmates, those whom he could flip in Indian wrestling, or lead through the woods on a coon hunt, he felt humiliated and betrayed.

Then, he heard a voice out of Bethlehem, or Nazareth, or the Upper Room.  “Come with me,” the young nun whispered, as she took the child by the arm and let him away from the enemy’s camp to the convent kitchen.

In familiar German, the cook welcomed the boy, washed his face of tears.  Then, she went over to the cupboard , where she pulled down a bottle and poured a couple of jiggers of the brown liquid into a glass.  Her back was to the boy, concealing lips tight in anger against him who had hurt her young friend.

Usually, when the youngster helped her to plant the vegetable seeds after school, his rows as straight as a die, the old nun would reach into her pocket and give him some hard candy, a luxury that came only at Christmas time to his poverty-stricken family.

But today, long before child psychiatrists or social welfare counselors, something stronger was needed – 100-proof of what I cannot say, for that is not part of the handed-down story.

Up to the dormitory, they went.  Off came the scuffed shoes.  “Now, you drink all of this, child, and when you wake up, you’ll feel better,” the angel promised.

The child knew what he was drinking, all right, the kind of stuff his dad and uncle drank at weddings.  It tasted sweet, then a bit sharp, then warm all the way down.  The nun covered him up.  When he awakened hours later, it was dark outside, and he felt better, just as his friend had promised.

From then on, every night after supper, the young nun sat with him for an hour, helping him with his catechism, first in German, then in English.

First Communion Day arrived, and the boy proudly took his place with his classmates.  After Mass, the priest walked outside to accept the congratulations on the fine class, then lit up a long cigar as he stopped to talk with the circle of wealthy farmers.

The cook put on her apron and began to prepare vegetables for the nuns’ dinner.

And the young boy rode home in a wagon, his mind filled with memories of humiliation, of gentleness and compassion.  No more boarding school;  he was now needed for man’s work on the farm.  But he would never forget love in a glass of 100-proof and after-supper catechism lessons.

May the love and compassion of Christ be with all our First Communicants, their proud parents, teachers, and friends.

May you children know that others  may be smarter at addition, or steadier on the baseball diamond, or sing hymns on perfect pitch, but only each of you, one by one, can offer Jesus a special love on First Communion Day and throughout your lives, Amen.

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