the wrath of my mother

I relayed a memory today.  Of my First Holy Communion.  My mother leaning over me saying: "If you get wrinkled you're dead.  Make sure when you get in the pew to run your hands over the outside of your dress to flatten it out before you sit down."   And then just before heading into the church, Sr. Perpetua with her long face, glaring at all of us little girls saying: "Listen to me and listen to me good.  Today you make your Holy Communion.  It's a sacrament, not a day to look pretty.  Don't let me catch any one of you playing with your veils or fixing your dresses during this mass because God will punish you."   

And poor 7 year old me, getting in the pew, forgetting to flatten my dress out before I sat down, wondering with all my wits and might what a worse fate is - the wrath of God or the wrath of my mother. 

I still don't know the answer.    

My mother's wrath is silent and deadly.  It's not loud.  It's not violent.  But in one cold stare your entire inside dies and you crumble to the ground, ready to admit all of your stupidity and offer it up as a sacrifice for redemption.  Never really to be forgiven, just not dealt with.  

At least with God you can serve penance.