Healing in the Sacrament, Part 2

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Before we go further, it is important to give a bit of our backgrounds.

Christian
I was born and raised as a French citizen in a Muslim country, Morocco. The end of the colonial era was surreal in the sixties and seventies. With my two brothers, as teenagers males, we had a lot of freedom; we also knew we had no future in our native country. We would graduate from high school in Morocco, then go to college in France. We were French citizens but didn’t know much about France. We didn’t think we could live there. 

My home town: Meknes, Morocco

We were a Catholic family. I used to help my mom prepare baskets for the elderly as a child. My faith was strong. I wanted to become a religious and my brothers would make fun of me and call me “ the little priest.” We were going to mass every Sunday until I turned 14 and started to skip it until gradually, I stopped altogether.
We lived our lives on a daily basis. We had seen and heard of atrocities, massacres of entire families by Moroccans. Phone lines were tapped; we couldn’t trust the people who were working in our house, even after many years. 

Three brothers and the nannies

I never opened up too much about who I was because who could I trust? I didn’t express my feelings; hey, it was a macho country! I didn’t look for deep conversations since our world could disappear in a moment. I didn’t even speak too loud to avoid eavesdroppers. We lived in a constant state of insecurity. We always had to be careful about what we was said on the phone, in our own house. Anybody could have been arrested just for laughing in a movie theater during the news if the King was on the screen. The police in the theater could think, and even swear, that you were making fun of the King. Of course everything could also be settled for a small amount of money.
We knew we would never take over my Dad’s land surveying company because it could be nationalized at any moment, for no reason. We could also have to pack and leave everything behind at any time without prior notice. It happened to many in Algeria, our neighbor in the East.
The end of such an era was full of mixed feelings. Besides all these insecurities, if you just lived in the moment, life was good and fun; we had a feeling of complete freedom. In this macho country, girls were there to please the men and we loved it. The real guys were those who had as many girls as possible!

Hunting and chasing!

Christine
My hometown, Le Creusot, had nothing to do with sunny Morocco! It was a gloomy workers town in South Burgundy, France. The Schneider family built the town in the 19^th century around their big factory. They made cannons, locomotives and armor plates. They had also built churches, hospitals, schools, and owned about everything in town. Everybody was working for them! It wasn’t really a fun town. There wasn’t much to do. People had a strong accent that rolled the r’s, and that was it. Nothing to boast about.

Le Creusot's famous hammer

My childhood was what any outsider would have called “happy.” No major trauma besides my mother’s accident, when I was about 5. She was driving a scooter and ran into a huge moving truck. She landed on the other side of the truck, and was in a coma with a concussion for 3 days. I remember seeing my older sister cry, my Dad awfully worried, but I didn’t really understand what was going on.
Besides this event, it seems like there isn’t much to say. When you look at my childhood pictures, though, you can see that I didn’t smile very often. I had a crabby look most of the time. 

Yes, I'm the one on the right!

Truth be told, my two older brothers weren’t particularly kind and I had no one to defend me. I remember being tied to a tree most of an afternoon, for example. They would also call me names, tell me I was fat and had a big nose... so much for my self-esteem. I would complain to my Mom, but she didn’t want us to pity ourselves, so she would just send me away, saying that they were just “teasing” me. My Dad was completely absorbed in his job and didn’t have any time for us.
I was a very anxious child, probably absorbing my father’s chronic anxiety.
I was also very straightforward and always spoke my mind, which embarrassed my parents more than once!
We were also a practicing Catholic family, going to mass every Sunday. My faith was strong as a child. I was greatly inspired by the stories of the saints and missionaries. When I was six, I wanted to become a nun, a dancing nun actually (I wonder why no one took me seriously?) and I wanted my religious name to be “sister Daffodil,” because they were my favorite flowers (still are!). Then I turned 13 and the Church became liberal in France. That’s when I started to find mass boring.
I brought my insecurity into our relationship, as I had never felt understood. I craved attention, love and protection…  (to be continued)