Author’s Note: I apologize in advance for the length of this post and any negative light it may shed on my family and the way I was raised. Your input is welcome.

On Tuesday, I spent a slow day at work browsing blogs. I could explain to you how I came across a particular blog yesterday but then I would have to explain my guilty pleasure for MommyBlogs, especially those dealing with infertility. It seems ridiculous at 23 that I would be interested in those topics but for some reason, I am. (Most of the blogs I read are written by women in their late 20’s and early 30’s.) But it seemed a little less ridiculous as I stumbled on this particular blog and found that the author is just a year or so older than me, struggling to have a baby and above all, a strict, devout Roman Catholic.

She is currently documenting her first pregnancy but I started at the beginning of the Archives and am stumbling through to the present. Most of her entries speak of her husband (who she married at the age of 20), her insatiable desire for children (they began trying to conceive a few months after marriage) and most notably, her adherence and fervent acceptance of the Catholic faith. Over the course of the year or so of which I’ve read so far, she writes intelligently and eloquently on abortion, women in the priesthood and the Catholic views on birth control and also “ART” or, Assisted Reproductive Technology.

She is more knowledgeable about the Catholic faith than I am or ever was and she is my age. She lives in a small town in Michigan, married and pregnant. At my age. At more than one point during the course of her blog, she speaks of how badly she wants a baby and how she chooses to pray Novenas and attend daily mass and write in her prayer journal instead of going to a doctor for testing. She writes in such a way that I completely support and understand her decision and now that she is indeed pregnant, how could I not?

There are many things I could address and I’m sure I could delve into specific issues and state my point of view but those are topics for another day. What really struck me was the fact that I used to think that I would have a life like that. When I was younger, I assumed I would go to college, fall in love, marry young like my mother and pop out 4 or 5 children. And then? Things changed. While I read Arwen’s blog, which was punctuated with quotes from scripture and impassioned rants on Christ’s love and peace, an overwhelming feeling of anguish and despair came over me as I slowly realized the simple truth: I used to be her.

If my mother could mark a box that would best describe her as a person, it would probably be “Roman Catholic with an Evangelical/Born-Again Oomph!” This means that while I was raised Catholic, my religious background contained bits and pieces of fundamentalism. This essentially means that unlike most Catholics, my mom sings and recites the pieces of the mass with fervor. She has no problem raising her hands or swaying or clapping to music. Growing up, we were not allowed to play with the ouija board, read horoscopes in the newspaper or dress up like witches or devils for Halloween. Compared to people in my neighborhood, my mother was some sort of maniacal extremist.

My father lost his job when I was 10 years old. It was next to impossible for him to find new teaching employment, thanks to a shaky job market and credentials that made him completely overqualified. Time after time, the fresh-faced younger candidate, straight out of college was hired instead of my father, who instead would swallow whatever pride he had left and stand on the unemployment line in order to feed his wife and four children. There are many effects that this had on me and my family, many that I carry with me to this day. More than anything though, I remember a distinct increase in the amount of church activity.

Before my father left for a job interview, we would stand in a circle in the kitchen and hold hands and pray, united in our faith that something good would come soon. But it didn’t. My father interviewed all over the place and I remember talk of us moving to Pennsylvania or Connecticut. Envelopes with money would appear in our mailbox, anonymous gifts from friends of the family. We almost foreclosed on our house. Twice. Creditors called our house constantly, demanding overdue payments. I remember falling to my knees in my bedroom, crying and offering anything to God if only He would give my father some work. “Just give my mom and dad some money,” I begged. And while I pleaded, my mother took charge in other ways, including dragging us all to a good ol’ tent revival of sorts.

For three evenings in a row, in the middle of sticky July, an evangelist, his wife and two kids (Luke and Tiffany!) would sing and preach and clap Jesus into our hearts. At the end of a set of rockin’ music and a loud Praise Be To Our Saviour! testimony, people would line up in front of the tent in a long row. One by one, the evangelist would pray over them as two men stood behind, arms open as if ready to catch a sack of potatoes. Before I could ask my mother why they were standing there, I saw a woman fall down backwards into the arms of the two men behind her. They laid her gently on the ground and moved on.

My mother calls this “Being Slain In The Spirit”, where the Holy Spirit comes to you and literally strikes you down on the ground. When my father, an introverted sit-in-the-corner-and-observe kind of man, suddenly got up from his chair to go join the line, I was fascinated. The fiery evangelist finally reached him and suddenly, my father’s 6′2, 230 pound frame went limp and was laid on the dirt floor by the two men who caught him. While it was kind of intriguing to see random people fall down as if struck by electricity, it was downright eerie to watch my father lay still in front of everyone. I wanted to scream and I wanted to wake him up and more than anything, I wanted the Holy Spirit to slay me down too.

During the last night of the Clap-Your-Hands-For-The-Christ-Child Celebration, I went up to be prayed over, hoping so so badly to be slain in the spirit. I felt the sweaty hands of the evangelist on my forehead and then…nothing. It was similar to the time I visited my cousins in Albany and they started praying in tongues. My mother can pray in tongues, too, a phenomenon which I cannot explain or begin to describe. My cousins couldn’t believe that I had never been granted the gift and so they layed their little hands on me and prayed to Jesus that I would speak in tongues too. I prayed so hard. And still, English was all that came out of my mouth.

Throughout my young life, I accepted the Catholic church’s teachings as absolute. I was taught to believe, not to question, to accept and to follow. I regurgitated everything my mother taught me, unable to form an opinion on my own because I didn’t need to–Jesus had all the answers. A few of my friends in 7th grade attended the Congregational Church near our house and I would go to youth group with them because they watched movies and played mini-golf. My mother, over dinner one night, referred to that church as the “Fluff Church” and when I asked for clarification she explained that that’s exactly what she meant: the church had no substance and no structure and existed solely for barbecues and youth groups that played mini-golf.

I felt it my moral duty to break the news to my friends over lunch in the cafeteria that they were indeed worshipping at a Fluff Church. Needless to say, they were beyond offended. I couldn’t figure out why. It was obvious to me that the Catholic Church was the only choice and that my holier-than-thou, judgmental attitude was correct. This mentality stayed with me as I grew and I spent most of high school wearing a huge silver cross around my neck and going away on retreats. I was high on Jesus Christ and everyone knew it.

Pre-marital sex? Not on your life! I had a two year relationship with my high school boyfriend without any serious sexual activity. Abortion? Not a chance! I had a pin with two little baby feet on it, do you know a fetus can suck its thumb at 10 weeks?! Alcohol? Y’all are EVIL SINNERS!!! I did not know how to be understanding because I was not taught to be that way. I did not know how to graciously disagree because nobody showed me how. I silently judged people who did not go to church on Sunday and who told me they were “spiritual” but not “religious”. What kind of bullcrap was THAT? I asked myself. God rewards people that play by the rules and I was certainly one of His favorite people. When I die and go to heaven, I am gettin’ me a PARTAY.

I cannot pinpoint the exact moment that I grew apart from my upbringing. I’m sure college had a lot to do with it though I didn’t really ever rebel with tons of tequila or men. I just started to realize that certain things weren’t that big a deal and that there are gray areas. Like, abortion? How was I SERIOUSLY supposed to know how I felt about that when I was 16?! It was easy for me to rally against it when I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW HOW TO FRENCH KISS!

Honestly, I think I just grew up. I joined in mass at the Newman Center on campus for awhile, but I slowly grew disinterested as I realized that there was not ONE attractive male on the church volleyball team. Also, one of the priests really pissed me off. His homilies were centered around quoting philosophers and writers and I often thought he was just talking to hear himself talk. He wasn’t real.

Many people have left the church or have been turned off because of a specific priest. It’s an unfortunate circumstance surrounding organized religion. Lucky for me, I’ve known some amazing priests. This is probably because my mother knows every single one in the entire diocese and often invites them over for shrimp marinara. The point, according to my mother, is that while you may not enjoy a certain member of the clergy, that is not the reason that you are attending mass. While Protestants often declare that the focus of the mass is the people and the lesson of the day, the Catholics truly center their mass around the Eucharist. I posted a little about searching for the meaning of the Eucharist in other religions here.

One of the best things my therapist ever said to me was, “You view issues as right and wrong. There is a ton of internal struggle going on when you want to do things that you view as ‘wrong’. What if there is no right or wrong? What if things just are what they are?” That theory of course, could send a society into mass hysteria and chaos but I think for ME, it was pertinent.

I do not go to church regularly anymore. I no longer think issues like contraception or premarital sex are black and white, right or wrong. I accept divorce as a heartbreaking solution to a marriage that cannot be saved. I feel like if I was told I could never have a baby the old-fashioned way, I would try everything in my power to conceive one, even methods that the Catholic church does not approve of. I cannot remember the last time I opened a Bible.

My mother (and the young girl who’s blog started this tirade) says that the church is not a salad bar and that you cannot pick and choose. But why not? I disagree with a lot of things but I still have no desire to leave the church. I enjoy the structure, the meaning, the traditions, the hymns. I find strength in the words of prayer and in the songs and psalms I was taught. When I am alone and deathly afraid (read: when in an airplane or elevator), I silently pray the rosary. I am not anti-Catholicism, not by any means.

I just wonder where that girl went? I’d like to think that I am a better person now. That, if the people from high school could see me now, they would not judge me or think I am the same as I used to be. That I would NEVER say you worship at a Fluff Church. That I would NEVER judge you for using birth control or being divorced or getting drunk. I’d like to think that you would know that I would love you and accept you and hey, bring some pinot grigio and let’s talk about YOUR thoughts over shrimp marinara!

But if I say that I am more understanding now, more educated, more experienced than it will sound like I am saying that devout Catholics are naive and ignorant. But they aren’t. My mother is one of the smartest people I know. She is funny and beautiful and joyous and loving. The young girl from that blog is too. I just am not the way I used to be and because of Catholic guilt or the simple truth or both, I feel that this makes me a failure as a follower of Christ. I was on a path, I was doing so well and then I lost my way. I’m not 17 anymore but I still believe in God and have faith and think that I am a good person. The problem is that I was taught that that isn’t good enough.

We all know I’m insecure and have very little confidence. I could blame people for it but I’m old enough to know better and accept responsibility. The essence of it is that I was raised in fear. When you are afraid for the first 15 or 16 years of your life that when you mess up, you will be punished by a force greater than you’ve ever known, it is hard to feel good about yourself. And so, I am a perfectionist; I hate admitting my mistakes and I would rather lie about them than admit them in most cases, that is how afraid I am. I’m getting better but it’s not easy.

Basically, I’m having trouble reconciling the ego and the humility. As an actor, I need to be impenetrable. I need to walk tall, let criticism fall off my shoulders and have strength in my abilities. But I was taught to be selfless and giving and forgiving. I do not know how to balance my sensitivity with being a strong, confident young woman. Instead, I let people walk all over me and I feel tons of guilt when I take time for myself or speak up for myself. My mother taught me to be independent but she did not teach me how to be confident. I don’t think it’s a lesson she could have taught me. Maybe no one can.

So. I went to church yesterday.

There is a glorious Episcopalian cathedral a block away from my office. Upon further examination, I found out that they have a 12:05 celebration of the Eucharist in the chapel. Essentially, it’s a 25-minute mass. A gospel, a sermon, some prayers, the bread and wine, the dismissal. It varies slightly from a Catholic mass but not by much. The most notable difference yesterday was the fact that it was presided over by two women.

The sermon was about St. Benedict and the psalm we recited is one of my favorites of all time. Everything was spoken instead of sung because it was a daily mass but I remember singing this particular psalm (Taste and See) at my church back home and the melody of it haunted me the rest of the day. The words of the song are altered a bit from the words of the text but my favorite lines of Psalm 34 are these:

“Worship the Lord with me,
You’ll want for nothing if you ask.
I called the Lord and He answered me,
From all my troubles, He set me free.”

And that’s the kind of God I believe in now. A God who absolves me without me having to beg. A God who is present whether I go to church or not. A God who is with me when I go for long runs and admire the sunset over the Manhattan skyline. A God who smiles when I have a good laugh with a friend and a God who is there for me when friends are not so kind. A God who has given me so many blessings and who still loves me even when I mess up.

The Episcopalians do not utter the Catholic, “Lord, I am not worthy to receive you” before they accept the bread or, Body of Christ. My uncle, who is Catholic, simply refuses to say it as he hates the idea that he could ever be unworthy of anything. I understand his reasoning but did not agree at that moment. Since daily mass was attended by a small number of people, we all knelt up at the altar yesterday, awaiting the blessing of the bread. All I could think was that I was truly unworthy, having been away so long and having been so critical of the entire institution and I started to cry.

I’m not sure I can ever feel that “I LUV CHRIST WWJD!” feeling ever again. I’m not sure I have it in me to praise the Lord so openly and unabashedly. I miss the feeling that I thought I knew everything and that I had all the answers. I’m trying to accept that you can never really go back and that really, I like myself more the way I am now. And yet, I still want to have faith. I still want to believe.

I walked back to my seat, sat in the pew and allowed my head to fall into my hands. And as my tears flowed, I whispered my only prayer, hoping and knowing that God would hear me,

“Let me come back, let me come back, let me come back, let me come back…”

Peace.