I didn’t really want to win the World Cup that much.

When I was 11 years old, I started sixth grade at a new school. I knew very few of my classmates, and on the first day, everyone knows that you have to make a strong impression. In my young boy mentality, those first twenty-four hours would mark that first year of middle school and maybe even my entire life as a student. I had no idea that this day would not only mark my school but also my entire life.

I vividly remember the curious looks and awkward gestures of the pre-adolescents we were. Everyone was wearing new sneakers, a new Eastpak bag, and a new tracksuit for the boys or a new pair of jeans for the girls. Everyone was eager to present a good image to others but also to our new homeroom teacher: Mrs. Guiho.

Once the seats were assigned in the classroom, I was very happy to find my place, neither too close to the front nor completely at the back. It was a delicate situation for dear Mrs. Guiho because she had the almost impossible task of making her class of 25 students comfortable. While handing out a notebook, she explained that this unit was the old catechism class, renamed “homeroom hour” — we will skip over the absurdity of the name to note primarily the loss of identity of this private Catholic school, which often bore only the name of Catholicism. Modernity had done its work, and so the revolutionary new idea Mrs. Guiho offered us was to take a notebook and use it as a diary, to write our fears, anxieties, but also our joys, dreams, and plans.

The idea itself isn’t bad, but at eleven years old, this exercise seemed to me incredibly feminine and completely pointless. I took out my pencil case, swallowed my pride (this was not the time to stand out), and started the exercise. Our kind teacher began by swearing on her gods (which apparently were no longer the same as mine…) that no one and nothing would have access to this notebook and that we could be sure its contents would remain secret until the end of time. Then she asked us to write our name and surname on the first page, what our goal in life was, what we wanted to achieve later, and also the name of a person who inspired us.

I must admit that the question made me a little uncomfortable. At eleven, I didn’t really have a clear idea of what I wanted to do later. Most of my classmates were already writing. It must be said that my generation had just experienced the great emotions of the legendary 1998 football World Cup and the 2000 European Championship. There isn’t a single 11-year-old boy in all of France who doesn’t dream of becoming a footballer and looking like Zidane, the new national hero. As for the girls, Alizée, Lorie, and Jenifer are the new singing stars, and their faces are on notebooks, agendas, and magazines at the bottom of new Eastpak bags.

Personally, I didn’t have an Eastpak, I wasn’t dressed in a tracksuit and sneakers, and frankly, I simply didn’t want to win the World Cup. At that point in my life, I was discovering a little rebellious spirit and a mischievous pleasure in swimming against the current. So I had to find an answer that suited me and not just respond like everyone else.

I must admit that I mainly wanted to get rid of this somewhat embarrassing question since no answer was obvious. The possibility of becoming a priest had already crossed my mind. I had heard my priest ask for prayers for vocations because the diocese was short of priests. I remember not understanding why a job that only involved working an hour on Sundays was so unattractive. And seeing the collection baskets pass in front of me every Sunday, it seemed quite well paid for just an hour of work…

There were also the eternal sacristy ladies who helped me put on my altar server robe, and they subtly hinted that I could become a priest later because the white robe suited me very well.

But above all, there was my great-uncle, a Cistercian monk, who came to our house from time to time. A man of deep Faith who radiated incredible joy of living and profound inner peace. I couldn’t put into words this phenomenon, but even at 11, I realized that this man had something special. I looked at him with curiosity and admiration, completely captivated by his personality and magic tricks. He is definitely the one who inspired me to give God the first place in my life.

Anyway, all that to say that I finally took my pen and wrote, without much conviction and especially without the right motivations: “I am Jérôme Dejoie and I want to become a priest. The person who inspires me is my uncle Jean, who is a monk.” As soon as I put down my pen, Mrs. Guiho’s voice interrupted my thoughts: “Now, since it’s the beginning of the year and to help us get to know each other better, each of you will read aloud what you just wrote in your notebook.”

Fortunately, heart attacks are very rare among 11-year-olds because I must admit that I had rarely experienced such a radical heartbeat acceleration as that beautiful September morning. I had to think of a way out, and think quickly. My classmates were already loudly proclaiming their desires to become footballers or famous singers. Mrs. Guiho was overjoyed because almost everyone was discovering common points, and it would be easy for each to make friends.

As my turn approached, my little brain was overheating trying to figure out what I should do. Saying in front of my new classmates that I wanted to become a priest would be an immediate social condemnation. If, for me, as a practicing Catholic boy, it wasn’t very clear what a priest was, I can only imagine what it meant for my classmates. Besides being seen as the weird kid in class, there was really nothing to gain.

I knew what I didn’t want to do, but that still didn’t give me the solution to get out of this mess. Soon it would be my turn to speak, and I really didn’t know what I was going to say. I felt a little betrayed by Mrs. Guiho, who, after assuring us that this notebook was more secret than nuclear codes, simply asked us to reveal in front of everyone what we had written.

And suddenly, I found my escape. Indeed, no one would check if I read exactly what I had written. It was so simple and easy; I just had to say that I also wanted to become a footballer, and everyone would believe me. It was time; only two people before me had to speak. My choice was made; I just needed to start my first day of middle school with a little lie that wouldn’t hurt anyone. Lying had never been a big problem for me, my parents can testify… but this time, I didn’t want to do it. But did I really have a choice? My decision was made—no fuss, not today, let’s be reasonable.

Anyway, I no longer had time to think because it was my turn to speak, and reassured by my strategy, with all the calm in the world, I said: “My name is Jérôme Dejoie, and I want to become a priest.” I think my brain was still convinced I had said I wanted to become a footballer, and there was a brief moment of hesitation during which I felt like I was hearing myself say this improbable phrase. It was only when I saw the faces of my classmates and Mrs. Guiho that I realized the situation. There was a huge silence in the classroom; I had really spoiled the mood. The last students finished the exercise, but no one was really paying attention anymore. Once the exercise was over, Mrs. Guiho resumed and said: “Since this is a catechism class, I would like Jérôme to tell us why he wants to become a priest.” Honestly, we are on the verge of school bullying! We will skip over “homeroom hour,” which, like magic, became the catechism class again… I was still in shock from what had just happened and stammered: “I don’t know, I feel called.”

This moment in my life is a detail, a small episode that marked me, but it is one of the triggers of the great adventure of my vocation. There were moments before and many moments after. Yet, at the dawn of my priestly ordination, I like to look back at that moment to see how long the journey has been. I was eleven, with a very limited and sometimes mistaken idea of what a priest was. I knew nothing of his theological dimension or of his vocation to be another Christ. My answer to my kind teacher’s question was not very mystical but rather very much that of a young boy already marked by pride, non-conformism, and maybe a little courage too.

I didn’t want to give an easy answer; I wanted to express my difference and also my indifference to what others might think of me. There were far too many “Me”s and “I”s in that answer. But that’s also why I like it. When I reflect on that answer, I realize how far I’ve come and how much God can use a very limited response and transform it into a “yes” full of Love, with His infinite patience and the support I received during my seminar years from my Legionaries of Christ trainers and my confreres.

My answer had many flaws, as one might expect from an eleven-year-old, somewhere between the innocence of a child and the foolishness of a teenager. But it had the merit of being an honest answer. I didn’t want to lie to my class, to my teacher, and above all, I didn’t want to lie to myself. A few days after that answer, I joined the scouts, where I learned the meaning of honor, keeping one’s word, and the spirit of service. Three years after that answer, I entered the minor seminary of the Legionaries of Christ, where I learned to give God the first place in my life. Seven years after that answer, I entered the novitiate of the Legionaries of Christ to begin the most beautiful adventure and respond to that call as mysterious as it was magnificent.

               I don’t know where my former classmates are in their dreams of becoming football or singing stars, but for me, nearly 23 years after that answer, I am on the eve of my priestly ordination. I look back with a small smile at that young “me” of 11 who didn’t really understand what being a priest truly entailed, but at least I was honest and faithful to my calling. It’s quite possible that in 23 years, I will look back with a small smile at that young deacon of 34 who still doesn’t fully understand what being a priest really involves (since it’s an inexhaustible mystery), and I hope that once again I will be able to say that I am still honest and faithful to my call.

Talking about my vocation is an exercise I’ve been asked about very often, and curiously, instead of becoming easier to recount the events that led me from my small village in Brittany to my priestly ordination just a few meters from the tomb of St. Paul in the city of Rome, capital of Christianity, it has become more and more complex.