Tomorrow is the last Sunday of the liturgical year, the feast of Christ the King. Christ the King was the name of my church and school growing up. A little pre-fab building where I made my First Communion and was confirmed and, when I was in eighth grade, was required to go to daily mass and sing at funerals.

I regret to say that we often whispered and giggled and otherwise acted as 13-year-olds do at some of those solemn occasions. It’s something I’ve thought about through the years, the difference between then and now, when such a requirement might be considered too traumatizing. But mostly I’ve thought how traumatizing we might have been for the mourners. A flock of girls in green-and-gray plaid skirts with beanies on their heads and bow ties clipped onto their white blouses. Or maybe we were a hopeful sign, proof that life goes on.

In my last year of parochial school, the little church of Christ the King became the ornate Cathedral of Christ the King. It was a massive church with ornate lights and grillwork and the theme of kingship. One boring mass my friend Linda Welch counted every crown in the place. There were more than 100, if I recall.