When I was a child, on Lenten Fridays my mother would corral us into the Subaru and head to church for Stations of the Cross. Afterward, we would rumble back up the dirt road for the second essential feature of a Friday during Lent: tuna fish casserole. We referred to this dish—noodles, peas, canned tuna, and Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup—as “tuna fish shut up.” This was because every week, before we could start complaining about what was for dinner, my mother would tell us to, well, shut up.

We were good practicing Catholics: Mass every Sunday, grace before meals, and years of sacrifice to keep us in Catholic schools. At the same time, we weren’t necessarily paragons of devotion. We thought it was hilarious when a more devout classmate told us “we don’t say ‘shut up’ in our house.” We almost never prayed together. We said grace before dinner but not before any other meal. I loved my rosary because it glowed in the dark—not because I meditated on the mysteries. We never missed Mass, but we also never missed the opportunity to critique the homily on the car ride home. The faith was unquestionably the most important part of life, but we didn’t gush about it.  …

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