Because I am a sucker for ritual and for playing dress-up, I became an acolyte the minute I was eligible (after confirmation, which is a Story of Weeping). So I think this Christmas must’ve been in 1980, when I was just barely 11 years old. We lived in Slidell, LA, and we attended Christ Church: VERY high church. It was heavy on the stodginess and the incense, and I loved it.

So I was serving at Communion during Midnight Mass, which meant basically passing things around and moving things out of the way. Christmas Eve Mass is always a huge service, because those people show up who only go to church twice a year. My parents and sister were sitting up near the front, and I liked to keep an eye out for them and wave when they were at the altar.

My mom came up and took Communion by herself. I couldn’t see my dad anywhere. This was Not Right. They were deviating from standard protocols. Why would they not come up together? What could be wrong? Where was my sister? What had she done? Communion went on and on for an age and a half while I fretted harder and harder. Somewhere in there was a tragedy, probably sister-precipitated. By the time my dad knelt at the altar rail, toward the very end, I had convinced myself that they were getting divorced and that Christmas would be ruined FOREVER.

After the service I started weeping while I took my robe off, and I went running outside, crying hysterically, and ran straight into my parents.

My sister had fallen asleep, and they hadn’t wanted to leave her alone on the pew. They tried VERY hard not to laugh at me. They were moderately successful.