Nearly every memory I have of church involves attending Mass with my mother. While my father and siblings slept in on Sunday mornings—he still rose at dawn to work at the mechanic shop downtown; my younger brother and sister still shared a bed—my mother would wake me up bright and early to go to St. Elizabeth’s. I was ten or perhaps eleven, and while most kids that age would have complained about having to wake up at 7:00 to go to church, I actually looked forward to going. Like most other Latino kids my age, religion was important in my household: God wasn’t an abstract concept to us; God was instead a very real presence capable of unimaginable blessings or of completely upending our lives.

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