Full and fair disclosure: I am not Catholic. But I did spend seven years at a Catholic convent wanting to be part of the club. Being the outsider really makes you want to belong. I had my Hail Marys, various Creeds and the Stations of the Cross down pat in no time. Genuflecting and crossing myself felt a bit like the first time I kissed someone on both cheeks: part exotic, part secret handshake.
I married a Catholic who had been educated at a monastery and was the grandson of a convert. I know. The flowers at her funeral – by her request – had to be the papal colours of yellow and white.
