The Church

I was raised Catholic.

I . . .

Went to mass every Sunday.

Helped my Mom clean the church each week.

Searched out churches to attend in college.

And I was . . .

Married in the Catholic Church.

Soon after, being the dutiful wife that I was, I followed my husband in the Charismatic Movement, and started to attend nondenominational churches as we moved from place to place while in the military.

As his military career was coming to an end, Frank decided to attend a bible seminary in Oklahoma, intent on becoming a pastor.

Now I was never too keen on that idea, and God knew I cussed way too much to be considered pastor's wife material.  So, I was relieved when it was clear that would not happen.

After this, Frank got a job in San Francisco and we settled in Sacramento, where we would spend more than twenty years.

He was knee deep into all things "church."  I realize now this was his way of fitting in the world, but it was isolating and off-putting to those of us closest to him.

This era was also wrought with some of the most painful, hurtful, spiteful times in my life that were caused, in large part, by the Christians in my world.

To say I was disillusioned would be an understatement.

So, I left the church and everyone in it.

I walked away and didn't look back.

I was angry, bitter, and resentful.

I was done with the hypocrisy of the church and the people who represented it.

Even when Ben was fighting for his life in the hospital after his horrific accident, a chaplain came by and I absolutely lit into him.  I didn't want to hear a word he had to say.

Of course, I know now how wrong that was.  This man was only trying to help, but I couldn't see past the pain that Christianity represented.

Life continued, and . . .

I was principal of a poor school.  There was several churches in the neighborhood who helped us.  One in particular was so kind and generous, and the people so warm and helpful.  On occasions, I was invited to the church to talk about an upcoming event, or to thank them for something they had already done, and I enjoyed those times.

So, every now and then, I'd attend a service there.

Then I decided it would be nice to hear a rocking' choir, so I went to a black church down the street from this one.

By the time I left Sacramento, I was attending this one on a fairly regular basis.

But . . .

I could never fully commit.  Each time I went, I had one foot in the door, and the other one headed toward the exit.

One wrong move.  One wrong thing said, one perceived slight, and I would have been outta there.

Nothing happened, so I continued down this path.

Now that I've been away from the US for three plus years, I've attended church only a handful of times, and yet I'm stronger in my faith than I've ever been in my life.

With the technological advances, I'm able to listen to podcast sermons that have been, and continue to be, rewarding and edifying.

I've gotten over the resentment and hostility toward the church folks back in Sac. The older I get, the more I realize that for the most part, people are doing the best they can.  I don't believe that most people wake up to do others harm.  Mostly it happens out of ignorance or good intentions gone bad.

This may be a naive way of thinking, but it is the mindset I choose to have.

So my journey has gone from the ritualistic canons of the Catholic Church, to the bombastic blowhards of the Charismatic Movement, to the peaceful, fulfilling contentment of my current state.

And now . . .

I can say with confidence, I'm truly experiencing a peace that surpasses all understanding.