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Even though I’d used all my prayers, the Blessed Mother had not changed the color of my eyes. It was the first—but not the last—time I would empty my bank for that request and be disappointed.

“We don’t always know God’s will, Sam.”

“Is it his will for her to hate me?”

Our skin, our hair, and our eyes are simply the shell that surrounds our soul, and our soul is who we are. What counts is on the inside.

“Sam is different. There’s nothing that can be done about that.”

“Then why draw more attention to him? Why make him stand out any more than he already does? Why not let him just . . .”

“Blend in?”

“Yes, to whatever extent he can.”

“Because he can’t blend in, and the sooner Samuel learns that is the case, the sooner he can learn to deal with it.”

No use rocking the boat—you only take on more water.”

~~~~~

We were expected to discuss our days, though not anything “unsettling.” “It will disrupt your digestion,” my mother would say.

“A woman like that shames the habit she is wearing.”

perhaps you should consider that Samuel’s presence might very well be a perfect opportunity to put into practice some of the principles to which this school, and this parish, give lip service—to love one another and to display compassion to those who are different.

This school is not subject to the admissions requirements that govern public institutions.

In other words, you have the right to discriminate in the name of God.

Sister Beatrice’s face flushed. “It is not discrimination. It is . . . careful analysis.”

“Samuel will not wait in the lobby. As this is a matter that involves him directly, he will need to be present. I believe it will be an insightful lesson for him on Catholic compassion and empathy.”

“I asked that you tell me everything you can about Samuel, Sister.”

“I’ve never met the boy.”

“Precisely. So I fail to see how you are in a position to be making a decision that is in Samuel’s best interests.”

She wasn’t interested in just rocking this boat. She intended to capsize it.

The son of Madeline Hill, whose first uttered word had been the name of the Blessed Mother of Jesus Christ, would not attend public school. Of this my mother was quite certain.

While I do not specifically recollect enrollment at OLM, like my birth it is story I heard often enough to tell with authority of fact.

“Prayers are like coins deposited in a piggy bank, Samuel,” my mother assured me. “Save them until you need them for something important.”

I was in mid-walk, reaching for the dangling crucifix, a feat completely overshadowed by what had been my first uttered word. “Mary,” I’d said. To my mother, of course, this was solid evidence to support her conviction that God had a divine plan for me and my red eyes.