It was Sunday morning, everyone was preparing to go to Church. Mom (my mother) is not left out; in fact, she is the chief coordinator of all activities here at home – the reality of a poor widow with plenty of mouths to feed. Mom called out to everyone, "Prepare, else we'll all be late to church."

It was the first Sunday, and service was usually held at our parish, St. Alban, not in our local station St. Joseph, where we could stroll in in less than 45 minutes. St. Alban was several kilometers from home, and as such, fewer people from distant stations with means of mobility could afford attending service.

Worship at St. Alban was always a captivating experience as worshipers danced to the melodious symphony of the choir. The instruments were modern and, of course, sophisticated with a well-selected team of professionals to deliver the best sound to everyone's satisfaction.

As a child, everything was beautiful to behold, from the spectacle of the instrumentalists, vocalists, mass servants, other priests, and the chief celebrant. The ritualistic and orderly fashion of the Eucharistic celebration added hue to every encounter in St. Alban's parish. It was beautiful, and the memories still linger till date. It forms part of the motivation for my ambition to join the priesthood in the Roman Catholic Church.

My response to mom's call was not encouraging, which led to her leaving me behind. I had my own plans, which were to meet up with friends who also couldn't go to church for whatever reasons and next, proceed to the stream, swim, and later come back home to continue the next phase of our adventure – to go hunting for bush rats. At the turn of events, my friend's mom had tasked my friend to look after his three brothers because of distance while she went to church at St. Alban. Among...