I had no say in it. When I was a child of two or three years old, the priesthood was expected to be my vocation. In fact, it was mothers who called for me to be a priest. She alone had put me on this path towards a life of spiritual obligation and self-sacrifice. By his decree it was also ensured that the rotation of the earth around the sun and the water reached its own level; as certain as my brother Zac's destiny to become a doctor; and as inevitable as my sister Alice's providence to eventually marry into money, that I was to follow in my uncle's quiet footsteps and become a cleric of the Roman Catholic type. I have little, if any, memory of not having been a priest. My mother's obsession certainly wouldn't allow me this emptiness. Even as a young child, I was a priest, or at least waiting to be. I just had to follow the proper steps to make it official. My mother's words from my earliest years bear witness to her intention that the path my little steps should travel, as God had described it to her, should be unabated by the amusements of youth. “Mom’s little priest,” she called me. The guests heard at each visit: “Look at that compassionate smile. » “Has he not the trustworthy eyes of a pope?” “Are you my cute little pope?” she asked me in her best mother-baby voice. It was a question to which I had no possible answer. My childhood was not unlike that of any other child. Like all young boys, I played Holy Eucharist with my mother in the living room after she finished doing the dishes. She placed Ritz crackers on her favorite silver serving tray, and after summoning my brother, sister and father, I gently placed a communion wafer on each of their extended tongues like... middle of paper. ...although the newborn is considered a sinner, theologians argue that this state of sin must be understood to be distinctly different from the actual sins a person commits. After all, how much guilt can you make a newborn baby have? For this, they have a whole life ahead of them. It certainly seemed like the sacraments were the basis of my game, at least at home. I don't remember any unhappiness in my house during those early years. There was great peace, abundant laughter and music throughout our house – both religious and popular. My memories are of joy and comfort. Under the scrutiny of the brightest lights of reflection many years later, I would wonder if my memories were indeed accurate or if they might have been artificially embellished by comparison with the emotional and intellectual struggles of my later years of adult. Longing for the days of innocence.