Deb Blackmore: Confirmation

Deb Blackmore is a member of the Friday morning feedback group. She wrote this piece in response to the prompt, "Tell me about a moment that changed your life."

I lost my faith on the day of my Confirmation. I had never been very religious, most Episcopalians aren’t, but until that day I gave the Anglican traditions at the Church of the Good Shepherd my whole heart. I loved the pageantry, the thrilling organ music, the old English verses from the King James Bible. I memorized psalms, sang wobbly solos in the choir and ushered small children up the aisle when it was time to begin Sunday school lessons in rooms smelling of poster paint and paste.

My father stayed home most Sunday mornings with a thick New York Times, while mother shepherded all six daughters to weekly services. We knew that he would have a dozen powdered jelly doughnuts waiting for us when we returned and that kept us going.

The Confirmation Ritual was the culmination of a whole year of sober religious instruction and exciting overnight retreats for twelve-year-olds. We were eager to join the adult club by proving ourselves worthy of receiving the sacraments. The boys were keen to sample the dark red wine that stained our lips like sour cherry candy, but I was anxious about holding the host wafer on my tongue until it dissolved. Rumors circulated about what might happen if The Host, Body of Christ, was chewed. We were instructed to pause just long enough on the hassock, knees together with chin uplifted, for the congregation to observe our piety. I was certain that I had all of the particulars down pat.

My mother had always sewn our clothes for special occasions. Every year she made pastel Easter dresses and bright Christmas outfits, often in matching styles in six different sizes. With our hats and gloves, we were a testament to 1960s fashion and hard working motherhood. As the eldest, and already five foot eight inches tall, I was at the tipping point for the family dress code.

Mother had chosen a Butterick pattern and waffly white Piqué fabric for my Confirmation dress. It had a high empire waist, a scooped neckline filled with gently tucked ruffles and a simple A-line skirt. I knew from the moment I smoothed it over my over-stretched training bra that this dress was different, more mature, and even with my tiny gold cross around my neck, I felt edgy and uncertain in its sophistication. Suddenly, my fuzzy legs and white anklet socks felt wrong.

All year long our class had been told that the Archbishop would confirm us. It was an honor to make our vows before him and, on the day, the congregation buzzed with excitement and fervent prayers. At the appointed time, we lined up single file shuffling nervously towards the altar, where the Archbishop sat on his throne-like chair wearing his pointy Mitre hat, grand embroidered vestments and heavy gold rings on his manicured hands. When my turn came, I walked the shallow steps in my slippery white shoes and knelt beneath his towering presence. He placed his hands on the lace veil that covered my hair and I raised my chin in awe hoping to make eye contact that would reverberate in my soul forever. Instead, I watched his gaze slip down the front of my bodice to my uncomfortable, burgeoning breasts. It was the moment when my childhood and my devoutness ended.

“Defend, O Lord, this thy Child with heavenly grace…,” he intoned.

My well-rehearsed pause for contemplation seemed an eternity to me. The sickening scent of candles and fresh cut flowers wafted over as I turned to face the congregation with flushed cheeks and lowered eyes. Back in my pew with my friends, I picked up my new 1928 Book of Common Prayer, a gift with a special dedication from my grandmother, and flicked its pages to Psalm 140,

…”Deliver me, O Lord, from the evil man; and preserve me from the wicked man; who imagine mischief in their hearts.”

My parents did not comment on my distress, nor did I. My mother continued to sew for me, but never again allowed me such a grown-up dress, not even for Prom. That was confirmation enough that I had not imagined the Archbishop’s special attention.

Deb Blackmore lives in Atherton, California. She is a Certified Integral Life Coach who writes fiction and non-fiction about and personal development and “everyday philosophy.” Her work has been published in The Texas Review, Chicken Soup for the Sister’s Soul, and at www.debblackmore.com.

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