My First Holy Communion

One of my childhood biggest dreams was to join the long immaculate queue that walked to the altar like the Roman infantry to receive the communion every Mass. I have always being amazed with the way people comport themselves with righteousness after receiving the communion. I longed to know how it tasted; I dreamt of it, I imagined what the body of Christ would taste like in my sinful tongue.

It was this burning desire that made me join the catholic catechism at a very young age. A class I took more seriously than my Formal academic work. I never missed a catechism class not even when I was ill; I studied and practice everything Brother Friday taught me.

I remembered my first confession, which was a day to my first communion, I recall how we were cajoled to confess all our wrongs, we were cajoled with tragic tales of the fate of sinners who went to receive the communion without going for confession. 

You can only imagine the sincerity in my young heart as I walked like the worst sinner to the confession booth, knelt down and said “bless me Father for I have sinned” and went on to vomit all the sins of I had committed even those that I think now, don’t even count as sin.

I could remember how I memorized the penance given to me, as I walked straight to the altar to recite the ten Lord’s prayers and ten Hail Mary prescribed to me, making sure I pronounce every words that made up the prayers correctly and sincerely.

On the D-day, I couldn’t sleep the night before, my heart filled with trepidation, “What if I didn’t confess all my sin? What if I didn’t carry out my penance well? What if I have sinned unknowingly? Will something bad happen to me after receiving the communion?, Was I really worthy to receive it?” I tumbled in bed as my heart played pranks with my little head.

That morning I skipped my favorite breakfast because Brother Friday told us to receive the communion with an empty stomach and an open heart. Oh! my stomach was as empty as the Sahara desert and my heart as open as the gates of hell. Nothing will stop me from receiving the body of Christ.

In church, I and my fellow first communicants were dressed in white, the only black thing was our complexion, the congregation gazed that us with pride as we walk towards the altar in line to receive our first holy communion. The pride on my mother’s face was visible from a mile away, her son was about to receive his third sacrament, and three more to go.

My immaculate face was tainted with disappointment when the priest gave me the communion and let me sip from the cup that contained the blood of Christ.  

Now i can't remember why i was sad. was it the taste? or what?

I guess it was the taste. I expected the body of Christ to taste like the body of Christ,  not like wafer, i hate wafers, and I expected the blood to taste like Christ's blood not like alcohol.

Not that I knew what the real body and blood of Christ was suppose to taste like, but there are somethings you only know when you see them; like the love of your life.

When I got home and my friends asked me with glee what it tasted like, I told them it wasn’t worth the one year in catechism class. When I think of it now I just smile.