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The boy grew up in a Catholic home. As far as his parents were concerned, the only type of home there was to have, was a Catholic home. It was how they were raised, and how their parents before them had been raised. His grandmother had been a church organist, and her mother a church secretary. His father’s father had helped with St. Vincent DePaul. And then there was his grandpa and his uncle (both for whom he had been named) who had been members of the Knights of Columbus. The young boy had no idea what that was, or what they did, but he looked at the shiny K of C sword that had belonged to his uncle and wished it was his.

Living as a Catholic was all he ever knew. From the time he was little he remembered saying grace before meals, and saying the Rosary and going to Mass every Sunday.

His parents referred to themselves as “reverted” Catholics. He didn’t really know what that meant. He knew that they became enthusiastic when learning new things about the Bible and he knew they wanted him to learn too.

“To avoid our mistakes,” they said.

“To start out your life closer to God than we were when we started out,” they said.

He didn’t know what any of that meant. But he learned the lessons his mother taught him in his home school, and he watched the other Catholic families they associated with. It seemed normal to him to celebrate All Saints Day when the rest of the world did Halloween. He knew what an indulgence was. And when he was old enough, his parents made sure that he served every Mass he had the opportunity to serve.

He grew older. Some of his long-time friends started to mock their mothers in secret for their Catholicity. Celebrating the feast days was for babies (although he enjoyed the cakes and goodies that went along with certain feast days)! When he got old enough to drive and get a job he started missing Mass here and there.

“Too busy,” he said.

“Not interesting,” he complained.

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