The richness of thick , buttery grits fell flat on my northern tongue , and the blushed , coiffed beauty of the women foraging through the produce at Albertson ’ s made me ashamed that I owned sweatpants and made me regret the fact that I wore them to Albertson ’ s . I had not prepared for the black , shelled threat of the scorpion that clung onto my roommate ’ s bathrobe or the spiders so big they actually turned their necks to look at me . Yet during my first year in what seemed like Texas ’ s eternal summer , this strangeness held me . Safety lived in the fact that I thought my difference with those around me so big that making a real connection was out of the question . There was nothing to do but crouch behind the wall whose stones stretched all the way back to the Mason / Dixon Line .
The large Catholic vein running through the school added to the mystique of the place , even though I had grown up with this same faith , gone to Sunday school , gone to church . A picture of Christ ’ s thorned heart exposed and beating through his tunic decorated my memories of my grandparents ’ house . As a child , I sat in the pews with my grandmother , playing with an old rosary . The tiny hands of the plastic Christ had detached from the cross . I would twine the beaded decades through my fingers and twirl Jesus around by his feet . Sometimes we went to a reception following the service , in the church ’ s basement . I squirmed and shifted my way through each Mass , longing for the donuts and juice that lay untouched and immaculate beneath the long wooden floorboards more than for the dry cracker of Christ ’ s body and the sour wine of his blood . In my family , the Lord was contemplated for an hour or so each Sunday and then swept away as the current of the week pulled us through school and work . As I grew , these Sundays became more and more distant , but my body still knew when to kneel , sit , and stand .
Ten years and 2500 miles away from those Sundays , this tiny seedling of connection began to take root . Here , I found Jesus everywhere every day , hanging from the lobes of college girls and laying against their chests so chaste and fashionable . I had never made so many friends whose parents were still married and whose families were so united on matters of faith . This stark contrast to my own fragmented family lured me . I had never experienced such a strong commitment to being Catholic before setting foot in the Church of the Incarnation tucked away into one of the further corners of the campus . The marble eyes of the Virgin outside its doors looked to the sky ever adoring , ever hopeful , ever certain . Her gaze pierced through the deep blue of the wide Texas sky and locked on to a far off point . Her face brightened with recognition and
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