At the tender age of ten or so, I did my communion. The following Sunday we went back to mass to be congratulated for the milestone in front of the entire congregation. That, my friends, was the last time I set foot in a church.
Aside from my over the top all white tulle shoulder padded ruffled dress there was an indifference to the whole process. Skepticism, for sure. I distinctly recall confessing my sins. By confessing, I mean, I lied about things I’d done and thought would be considered sinful. Ten year old me recalls thinking, what sins could a ten a year old have? So, I made it up.
That, my friends, was the last time I set foot in a church.
Almost thirty years later and I find myself dipping one finger into holy water, opening one of the double doors, kneeling and making the sign of the cross weekly. As of this summer - 2018, I’m officially a church goer. It’s taken me and my family by surprise. I don’t speak on what happens. I don’t preach to people since I barely know most of the prayers. One thing is for sure, it has been incredibly comforting.
The day I walked in, I sat in the last row by myself and I bawled my eyes out. I was getting ready to pick up my little one from her summer vacation back in my native land and was going to bring her back to a “broken” home. She left with her parents under the same roof and returned asking, “where’s daddy”? Not to mention, my relationship with my mother, whom we live with, had completely crumbled and was also about to get worse.
When she returned after two months of fun in the sun, she understood instinctively that something had shifted. It took her about a month or two to truly internalize that daddy was not coming back. She was three at the time - now four. I only answer the questions asked at the moment. She processes it and either has more questions or says, “ok” and proceeds to do something else.
So yes, I walked into that church not knowing what to expect except, bawling my eyes out.
So yes, I walked into that church not knowing what to expect except, bawling my eyes out. The thing is, I needed an unfamiliar space to allow me to grieve. At the time, home was the last place I felt comfortable enough to do so. As I sat and kneeled and cried and fell into utter despair I didn’t get the sense that everything would be alright. I simply needed to let it out in a safe space.
Fast forward to the start of the New Year and I’m kicking myself for not only missing Sunday’s service, but due to misleading language, missing the New Year’s Eve mass as well. Truth be told, I’m still trying to figure myself out in this new space. I keep coming back because I don’t have to answer to anyone (family and/or friends) and I can truly clear my head. That’s been the biggest determinate. The time and space to let my mind wander. Sometimes after mass, I kneel, pray and cry some more. No judgement zone.
Do I consider myself to be religious? Not at all. Am I spiritual? Absolutely. This world is way too big for anyone not to appreciate all its glory. Now, why am I writing all of this? Maybe it’s my way of telling myself that it’s ok to “find religion again”. It’s ok to look for something or someone greater than myself to help me through this transitional period. It’s ok for me to feel this broken. In the midst of all of this drama, the toughest part has been accepting that I am weak. Rather, I’m not as strong as I’d like to be. I need help. I need guidance and reassurance without having to explain myself to anyone or feel their projected guilt on me.
It’s liberating and very necessary. I'm not advocating finding religion to get you through tough times. I am advocating for stepping out of your comfort zone to find yourself again, heal and learn to soar again.
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