sin and eternal punishment , and even more depressing “ sacred songs .” That was 1945 , the spring that I was nine .
When evening fell and the spring peepers , the little silver-voiced frogs , sang along the creek banks , and the full moon came up like a white rose over the thick woods of oak and maple , I wanted to pray to the moon . Even on winter evenings I would look up at the cold , round moon and want to speak to her .
When I was twelve I read Gone With the Wind . The passage that caught my heart and mind was the one describing the O ’ Hara family reciting the rosary , praying to the Virgin Mary . “ Hail , Mary , full of grace . . . .” I knew I wanted to pray to her too . “ Hail , Holy Queen , Mother of Mercy , our Life , our Sweetness , and our Hope .” Suddenly I had found the goddess I longed for , and had done so without having to deny the Christian faith I had been taught . Of course I did not think of it in those terms then .
A few months later my interest in Catholicism became serious , largely because of the place of honor the Church gave to Mary . In the rural countryside where I lived there were no Catholics ( except one Irish war bride ), though there were Catholic churches in some of the larger towns . That region was , from the Church ’ s viewpoint , “ missionary territory ”; the Glenmary order of priests was actively seeking converts . They sponsored “ Catholic Information ” programs on the local radio station , and drove through the countryside tossing copies of the Catholic newspaper , Our Sunday Visitor , into the yards . Reading one that landed in our flowerbed , I learned that in May , the month of Mary , altars were decorated with flowers and processions were held in her honor . Here at last I had found the ceremonies I had wished my Missionary Baptist church would offer . Ceremonies much like the ones that must have been conducted in ancient times in Europe when the bright goddesses of spring were honored .