Between Guilt, Grace and Growing up
For a Catholic child, the First Communion is no ordinary milestone. It is the moment when we cross from being mere spectators at Mass to becoming participants in its deepest mystery. Until then, we sat in pews watching others walk up to the altar, receive the wafer, and return with bowed heads, while we waited for our turn. That wafer — so thin, so fragile — was believed to become the very body of Christ through the mystery of transubstantiation during the Mass. To receive it was to welcome Christ into one’s heart, but only if one was in a state of grace.
And grace, we were told, was not easily won. Those who had sinned could not approach the altar until they confessed and had their sins absolved. That is why, at a tender age, we were trained to make proper confessions.
Into the Confessional
I was about seven when I made my first confession. We were trained together, a small band of children, taught how to confess “properly.” The lessons were solemn: the Ten Commandments, the five laws of the Church, the seven deadly sins—pride, greed, lust, envy, gluttony, wrath, sloth—and a handful of other transgressions we had never even imagined until then.
We were told to remember every sin we had committed, line them up in serial order, and declare them one by one to the priest. It was a heavy burden for such young shoulders. How could a child keep count of every quarrel, every insult hurled in play, every “poda patti” shouted in anger? And what of the countless acts of disobedience to parents, teachers, and elders? By the time the day arrived, we were convinced we were all seasoned sinners, guilty beyond measure.
As I approached the confessional for my first confession, my biggest worry was whether I would be able to recall all my sins—there were so many—and list them out clearly to the priest. I needn’t have worried. The parish priest was an old, gentle, and kind-hearted man. He made the whole process very easy. Before I could start listing my sins, he asked me a few questions.
“Have you disobeyed your parents?” “Yes,” I replied.
“Have you told lies?” “Yes,” I answered.
“Have you skipped Sunday Mass?” “Yes,” again.
After a few more questions, he didn’t go through the entire list of sins we were taught earlier because he knew the types of sins I was likely to have committed at that age. On my part, I was prepared to say “yes” to any sin, because during the preparatory classes for confession, we were repeatedly told that we were all great sinners.
Sixteen Hours of Sainthood
The first confession went well on a Saturday afternoon. But then came the real challenge: staying sin-free until receiving communion. The first communion was scheduled for Sunday morning during Mass. This meant we had to remain free of sin for the rest of the Saturday and the following night, for a total of around 16 sin-free hours. That was tough! No more fights, no disobedience, no swearing—essentially, no life. If I sinned, I could not go to communion, and that would be a major catastrophe. Therefore, one had to be extra careful with words, deeds, and thoughts. That afternoon, I went straight home from confession, avoiding all potential points of confrontation with other kids who were still free to sin. Once safely home, I decided to go to sleep early because I knew one cannot commit sins while sleeping.
Beneath the Paper Flowers
On the morning of the first communion, we all wore white clothes specifically made for the occasion. We also had white crepe paper flowers and silver foil pinned to the headbands we wore. With lighted candles in hand, we—the white army—proceeded toward the altar. Everything signified the state of grace we were in, sinless in immaculate white. After the Mass and communion, it was time to celebrate. An elaborate breakfast with sweets followed. For many of us, that special breakfast was also a major attraction, but we kept a dignified silence to preserve the ceremony’s solemnity.
At the end, there was a black‑and‑white group photograph. In fact, it was almost entirely white—our clothes, our flowers, our candles—except for the small patch of black hair peeking above the headbands. That photograph was meant to be a treasured keepsake, marking a milestone in our young lives. The print itself is gone now, lost to time, and I’ve long lost touch with those who stood beside me that day. Time scattered us all like those paper petals on our headbands, blown by the wind.
Yet I still remember a few of their faces, exactly as they appeared in that photograph—dressed in spotless white, caught in a sinless state. Of course, that spotlessness didn’t last; life soon smudged the edges of our innocence. But even that fleeting innocence has its own permanence, and those luminous moments continue to glow within me, undimmed by the years.