I was 13 when I received the Sacrament of Confirmation, where the Catholic church recognizes you as an adult. I received instruction at Our Lady of Fatima, a church we didn’t usually attend. There were a lot of kids there--almost all of whom I didn’t know--only a couple from my school. I was intimidated because there were boys. I wasn’t used to boys.

At the end of the instruction, we were given a slip of paper--a purple-inked ditto paper. We were to write the saint whose name we were taking on as a confirmation name. My mother had suggested it would be nice if I took her confirmation name--St Genevieve. Although I had already decided on Joan and didn’t know anything about this other saint, I decided to follow her wishes for me. I wrote Genevieve. I am certain I wrote Genevieve. I asked the girl next to me about the ‘i before e’ spelling rule because I wasn’t sure how to spell Genevieve. Then we handed them in.

I think it was the same night, we returned to the church--Saturday night. We were in dress clothes, but it seems we wore something on top--a purple satin choir gown? I remember the smell of the gowns and perfumes and colognes. Bishop Schexsnayder was there—way up there seated to the left of the altar--and at least a couple hundred of us to be confirmed. We were to process up to the altar, answer the doctrinal question his assistant would ask, then hand him the paper with the saint’s name.

The ceremony was more mundane than I expected--bright lights, kids giggling. The bishop listless. The sense we were being processed more than anything else.

Just before we walked up, we were each given our slips of paper. I opened mine. It read: Joan.

I walked up the aisle in line with the others, running through hypotheses of how I had a slip of paper saying Joan not Genevieve in my hand, even while I was anxious about knowing the answer to whatever doctrine question the bishop would ask. There was no one at this church that I knew, no one who knew my preference. Maybe Genevieve was not an approved saint--but then why not Theresa or Catherine? Why Joan? I wondered if St. Joan was looking out for me? But I never had any real sense of that. It felt more like a--hello!

I guess I still am running through hypotheses.

We stayed late after the ceremony because that same night, my baby sister was christened. As these things go, it wasn’t the slip of paper. She was the real miracle.

I write about this not because it’s the only time something like this happened, but it was the first I really noticed, experienced as out of the ordinary. Because I had a practical head on my shoulders, I figured it was a coincidence.

Other things happened over the years, and I let them too run by as anomalies. We get so much data every day--some pieces will link up in odd ways and we’ll notice them because of the links. Our little miracles.

But then some years back, stunned by a rather moving anomaly, I wrote it down. I decided a real scientist does not ignore the data that don’t make sense. A real scientist examines most closely the data that don’t make sense.