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My second lesson also took place in Bayside, around that same time, inside the apartment.  Dark, but not night, very early morning.  I was sleepily aware of Dad sitting on the edge of my bed, in his overcoat.  So it must have been winter, probably Advent, though maybe Lent.  He smoothed the covers and tucked them up around my chin.  I do not recall any words between us, but I knew that he was up very early to go to Mass, before going to work.  I just knew this.  This knowledge made me feel secure, and I disappeared back into sleep. 

The childhood faith lessons continued, with the scene shifting to Connecticut, where the family moved when I was six.  I was in school by then, of course — Catholic school, of course — but the lessons that I remember best did not take place in a classroom.  These were lessons in faith, not religion, a distinction I am finally appreciating.

Except on Saturdays and Sundays, Dad’s alarm clock would go off very early in the morning.  The alarm would often wake me up, too, and often I would get up to go to the bathroom and, on the way, peek into my parents’ bedroom.  No closed bedroom doors in our household!  In darkness, Dad would be sitting on the edge of the bed.  His feet flat on the floor, the palms of his hands resting on the mattress, his slightly bent arms supporting him, his chin tucked in a bit.  He would sit slouched like that for quite some time.  Then he would stand up.  At that point, I would melt away back to my bedroom, because we all knew that Dad had a get-ready-for-work choreography that no one disturbed.

The lesson?  That Dad was praying.  Which didn’t dawn on me until many years later, when I began to understand Matthew 6:6.  But I always knew I was witnessing something very personal.

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