An Experimental Life

It's well known that the last child born in a family is often... well... not spoiled necessarily, but definitely Treated Quite Differently.

And so, while my sisters and brother and I were all obliged to suffer the complete horrors of a fully Catholic education, including Mass on Sundays and holy days of obligation, at least four of the Seven Sacraments, and the ugly, utterly unsexy Catholic school uniform...

... Six, being the last born, was allowed to grow as an uncatechised heathen. She was baptized, yes, but was raised without any idea who Jesus was, what the inside of a church looks like, and what the Pope does when he's at home.

It seemed to work out well for her, aside from the occasional unexpected grace before meals with cousins. (Six developed her own two-handed version of the Sign of the Cross.)

Lately, though, she's become quite the scoffer at anything religious. While I have nothing good to say about Roman Catholicism or the current big-eyed, red-shoed Pope in particular, it is a little distressing to see Six so cynical, so young.

But oh well! She's also happy, sharp, and funny, so who knows where it will all end up?

Last night she was reading one of the Little House books of Laura Ingalls Whatsit, and came upon a chapter about Sundays. The little girls were obliged to sit quietly most of the day, while one parent read aloud from the Bible. The father in the book tells a story about how much more difficult things were in his father's day, when they didn't dare to laugh or smile the entire day.

Six demanded an explanation.

"That's religion," I told her. "Religion is all about rules. The Sabbath is supposed to be God's day..."

"And what does God care about it? What if their parents didn't *see* them laugh and play? No one would know."

"The idea is that God would know."

"Hmm, yes," she said. "But who would He tell?"

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