Take me to Church

I was raised in a religious family; church every Sunday.  Every. Single. Sunday.  We weren't just holiday Catholics (though I always thought they had the right idea).  I grew up with the traditions set firmly in place: beautiful baptisms and big parties to follow, first communion and big parties to follow, confirmation and a party to follow.  I think that's what always made it fun as a kid-the celebrations that seemed to go hand in hand.  I complained about going through all of it. A lot. It was always made clear-it was not my choice until I was older, at which point I would ask for clarification on exactly how old.  It's not that I disliked religion, not even close.  I think faith is a beautiful thing.  But understand: I am a questioner.  Always have been, about all things. That doesn't mesh easily with religion and so it's been a relationship of ups and downs, on-agains and off-agains, and questioning commitment.

When Sean and I got married we didn't do so in the church.  This was kind of a big deal with lots of, "your grandmother may not be happy,"  and, "it would be so nice for you to be able to be married in our church," comments.  I wasn't budging.  I had left for college 7 years before and hadn't "had a church" that was mine in just as many years, going only occasionally when I felt homesick or sad or when I was home for holidays.  My parents had even changed parishes and no longer attended the church I grew up going to.   I also, very firmly felt that God would be present at my wedding whether I was married in a church or next to a dumpster.  He was either always present or he wasn't; I chose to believe that it was unconditional.  And so, looking to smooth the decision over with the older gals, we found a reformed Catholic priest that basically dressed the part and said the right words and prayers to appease the crowd and either way we were married.  Mission accomplished.

We went on not attending church, not against it, but not looking to get involved either.  When I found out I was pregnant though, there was never any question that we would baptize her.  I knew we should go back to church and refresh our game before meeting the priest after she was born but we didn’t and so when it was time to go and talk with Fr. Jerry, a nice man but clearly no dummy, it was bound to be awkward and good ol’fashioned Catholic guilt inducing.   I definitely earned a trip to the confessional that day, lying more than once about our attendance to mass at their church and swearing in church (an f-bomb, for the love of all things holy!) after I dropped a paci.  I failed his test, clearly fishing to see if I had been to the church as recently as I’d claimed.  It was a mess the whole thing, and I found myself wondering if it all even mattered.  We went to baptism class (yes, there is a class) and set the date but not before Fr. Jerry talked us into saying our vows before him, oh and God, in the church to legitimize them in the eyes of the church.  So me and Sean, who had lost his wedding ring, with our baby in tow (I wanted to ask wasn’t it worse that we “had our baby out of wedlock” in the eyes of the church but didn’t want to push it with the priest who clearly saw I was not amused by the whole thing) oh and don’t forget my nine-months pregnant sister who had to serve as our witness.  He called me Pat as we said our vows, I’m pretty sure I swore again; it was really a joyous day.  We were told that was our wedding date within the church but don’t ask me what day it was-I have no freaking clue.  It was June. I’m pretty sure.  We went out to Ruby Tuesday’s after.  Classy.  But we were extra married and our little girl was going to be introduced to a family tradition that in the end was worth doing.  It was a beautiful day surrounded by love and family and a light that I think can only be explained as faith that someone greater than ourselves was protecting our girl.

We continued to go to church for a while after that but Kennedy was no church mouse and the noise got to be too much to wrangle and so we bowed out for a while again. 

And then came Jack.  When we got all of the diagnosis information I was mad.  At the world. At God. I was mad at everyone.  I kept being told, “God wouldn’t give you more than you could carry,” and all of those platitudes but that’s easy to say when you aren’t the one carrying it all.   As time went on and things happened as they did, we found ourselves in Philadelphia at a restaurant the night before our appointment to meet with the people we hoped could save our son, talking about baptism.  Would we have him baptized by a priest if he was born so soon, or would we have faith that we would make it to a Christening down the road a few months?

Three days later, I heard myself say to the nurses and social workers, “I want a priest here.  I want my baby baptized before he dies.”  They were scrambling to get a Catholic priest to the hospital on a Sunday but they did.  And so, Jack’s baptism looked a little different than his sister’s; a lot different.  Instead of being surrounded by his family and our friends he was surrounded by doctors and nurses.  I was not holding him as the holy water was poured on his head, but watching him as I was being operated on.  I didn’t cry tears of joy that my son was being welcomed into a community of love and tradition, I was sobbing that this would be the only “celebration” we would ever have for him.  And then he was gone.  And I hated God.

One of the last things I remember about the days following Jack’s death, when my mind finally, mercifully shut down to protect me, was meeting again with Fr. Jerry at our church to plan Jack’s funeral.  As we talked Fr. Jerry reminded me our children are really God’s and he doesn’t promise how long we will have them with us on earth and I can vividly remember thinking ‘you bastard, he was my child, no one else’s’ and that is all I remember until a few weeks later.

We went to church for a few months because I was desperate to feel like there had to be a reason for all of this.  That I had to believe I could feel him a little more inside of a church.   And then Mother’s Day rolled around and the ferocious beast that is grief came out again, and I was mad at God all over again.  So no, I wasn’t going to go to church. 

I don’t apologize for the path my faith has taken.  I also believe that the God I choose to put my faith in does not hold this against me.  I do not think I have to be in a church to have Him watch over my family, and me, or to feel the pain that courses through my heart every day.  I also do not place the responsibility of Jack being taken from us on God- because I can’t not imagine that a being that loves the way I was taught He loves, could ever make the decision for two people to hurt as Sean and I do.   So for me, church is watching my little girl sleep, it is hearing her laugh when no one is listening; it is the moments of inexplicable peace I feel in my heart from time to time.  I pray with Kennedy once in a while but my heart isn't always in it and so I hate to have that be her early experiences.  I know I’ll find my way back to the pews of a church some day, I always do.  I also know that faith is believing in something you can’t see; and I have faith that my boy is somewhere, with someone that will care for him in my place.