I loved it
When I was 9 I got this prayer book at my First Communion. I still remember how great the smooth rounded edges of the fake mother-of-pearl cover felt in my hands.
I held it again today after finding it in one of the boxes we moved from my mother's apartment.
If you mouse over the image you'll see my mother's distinctive back-slanted writing on the inside.
Then and now
From grade school days through the end of high school I was as Catholic as you could get: altar boy, daily mass as 6:30 a.m., frequent trips to the confessional (especially in those guilt-driven early teen years).
My faith barely survived college, severely shaken by the Church's refusal to speak out against the Vietnam War. Only Catholic protestors like the Berrigan brothers and Catholic Worker-inspired clergy and laypeople kept me in the church (broadly defined).
Now I do my best to ignore all organized religion. Religious zealots of all sorts— Christian, Muslim, you name it—have made me wary of anything done in the name of god.
But back in 1955, Come My Jesus was one of my prized possessions.
