(Editor’s note: This reflection on religion was written as prompt for a writing class exploring your life, your history. It contains my own small thoughts. It is in not a broad statement on religion and most certainly I do not wish to offend. It is simply part of my own faith “journey.” My ruminations. Thank you!)
It was early by Saturday morning standards, about 7:30, and I had to do something I hate having to do — wake a sleeping child. Okay, in the scheme of things it’s not that awful, especially when the aforementioned child is 12-years-old.
“Rise and shine sleepy head!” I said.
“Grumble. Grumble, “ and this — even from the sweetest of children!
“Up. Up. Up!! Middle school youth group retreat at church today!”
You can imagine the response.
“I don’t want to go. It’s ALL day! What? They’re having Mass too? Boring!”
In the Catholic Church we are filled with what seems like an exhaustive list of “need-tos” and “have-tos.” No eating an hour before Mass. No meat on Fridays during lent. Missing Holy Days of Obligation is a sin. But this one, a chance to meet with other 11-13 year olds and some super-cool-high-school-kids who’ve already made that middle years treacherous trek, seemed to fit in the list of “shoulds.” You should go ‘cause it’s good for you. Especially since we haven’t been so good about the “have-tos” lately.
So I sat down on the edge of the bed, gathered my most mature mom-like thoughts and said,
“We don’t know what road we’ll have to go down in life. We have many paths to choose on that road map. It can be hard to know which way to turn, so sometimes we need direction. Think of Church, of God, as our compass.”
From under the blankets I hear, “Don’t need a compass. My life has GPS!”
I tell this story, ‘cause it makes me laugh, and makes me think. Cradle Catholics. That’s what we are in our family. My parents, my parents’ parents, their parents and so on throughout branches of the family tree. For many it’s the right choice, yet for some it’s just easier that way. If you’re going to pick a compass, a faith, may as well dance with the one that brung ya.
Cradle Catholics are born into the faith. We follow, perhaps, ‘cause it’s a have-to, but maybe that’s okay. There is comfort in that. A commonality. When you, or your children go through their first communion, there is a long line of 7-year-olds before you, going back generations who’ve donned the fluffy white dress and veil, or new blue blazer and tight dress shoes, to do the same. When I had my first communion I wore awesome little white gloves. By the time my daughter received hers, gloves were out. Didn’t want anything between you and the body of Christ.
There is comfort in the pomp and circumstance. For example, when my grandpa, “LH”, died, we sat as a family in his Catholic Church in Pompano Beach Florida. His wife, Margaret, my Nana, sat straight-backed and proud in the very middle of the front pew. She was flanked on either side by her two daughters and their husbands (my father and uncle) — and in the next row all of us grandchildren and then great grandchildren. A funeral Mass has a beginning, middle, and an end. We knew exactly what to expect and what to say. At a time where your heart hurts there is comfort in that.
When my Dad was young, growing up in Michigan, he was an altar boy. He served mass for the nuns before school. It was an order where they are not allowed to speak. As a child I wondered why they’d be asked to take a vow of silence. Heck, I still wonder. My father’s mom, Mildred, was devout. She attended mass daily. According to family lore, there was an evening, a Friday, when she was invited to a friend’s house for dinner. They served beef. Stricken, she rushed to confession the next morning to profess her sin. She knelt in the closet like wooden confessional, peering through a screen, to beg forgiveness. Father’s response back was simple, “Was there no bread?”
I think god is forgiving and loving. I can’t quote Matthew, Mark, Luke or John, ‘cause, well I’m Catholic. It’s the stuff of comedy. Jim Gaffigan jokes in his standup act how everybody knows Catholics don’t read the bible. I have Catholic guilt. Lots of it. And I have plenty of questions and yes problems with the Catholic faith. Yet, it’s a part of who I am, who we are as a family. I talk with my children about the Holy Spirit. We envision the Holy Spirit as all your good stuff inside. We teach our children to be good to one another. To err on the side of kindness. To serve. To give people the benefit of the doubt. And frankly — “honor thy father and mother” — does come in handy. We recognize the concept of reconciliation. As children navigate their world, it’s a way to understand making mistakes and amends. We all mess up, but we learn and grow. We are forgiven. Does that mean I go to confession? No, thanks.
They have a name for people like me, “Salad Bar Catholic.” I pick and choose. Perhaps I represent the worst of both worlds, “Salad Bar” and “Cradle Catholic,” but I say it works. I don’t think “He” cares if I confess or forget and eat a burger during lent. “He” does care if I’m a good person and if I raise my children with important values- with a compass. During Mass each week the priest mentions “The mysteries of Faith.” Good word choice because “faith” can be mysterious — which may be why some take a “leap” toward faith. For me, being faithful, comes one baby step at a time
In the end I do think there is benefit to having that compass – or GPS – a nudge in the right direction. For the record, I also think God has a sense of humor. Years before that middle school retreat, that same child, my daughter Elizabeth, received her first Holy Communion. She looked both innocent and grown up in that expensive white dress (sans gloves), hands at her heart in prayer. At that moment she was taking part in something bigger than her seven-young-years. The next Sunday, she’d walk that walk, to receive the Body of Christ, all on her own. A step toward growing in her faith. That following Sunday I looked on with tears in my eyes. As we knelt in the pew quietly saying our prayers together she leaned over to whisper in my ear. I leaned closer to hear her and she says, “Jesus is stuck in my teeth!”
Nancy Miller Barton 