Our Sunday school class was in the Catholic day school attached to our church. The large classroom, with its faded gray walls, scarred brown student desks, and battered teacher’s table in front of the blackboard, reminded me of my homeroom at Lord Selkirk High. The large crucifix hanging on the wall was comfortingly familiar. The class was filling up. It was nice to see friends we didn’t see during the week. “I didn’t memorize the questions and answers for Lesson 16, did you?” Molly whispered to me just as Father Mike strode into the room. He was followed closely by Sister Ursula, famous for her pinched features, prickly chin, and wicked temper. A kind-faced older man, Father Mike was smiling in his usual benign manner, while Sister Ursula greeted us with her perpetual frown of disapproval. “Good morning, boys and girls,” Father Mike boomed in a good-natured voice. He always treated us as if we were still little kids, but we liked him so much that we didn’t mind. Sister was silent, her sallow face framed by a white wimple and her bulging eyes scanning the room for possible wrongdoing.
