A very taboo subject | slackermama . com

I don’t normally talk about this subject here on this blog. There are a few subjects, such as politics, that often cause more harm than good when discussed on blogs such as this. I haven’t wanted anyone to feel uncomfortable here because they may believe differently than I do in something. Generally, I’m not a judgmental person (unless you’re going 55 in the fast lane on the interstate in a state where 75 is the accepted (if not posted) speed limit, then I think you’re a moron). If someone I know has a different opinion than me, I generally don’t think less of them. If they’re wise about their beliefs and interested in hearing other viewpoints, then why would I? Differences are what make us so interesting as people. Where would we be without them?

I’m going to talk a little about religion and faith today. Now wait, before you run for that “back” button, bear with me. I’m not going to try to change anyone’s mind. I really don’t think that’s my place. And I know I hate people who “preach” at me, and try to change my mind on things. So please understand, that’s not what I’m doing here. I just want to write down the evolution of my own faith. Because it has been on quite a journey.

I grew up Catholic. I went to CCD classes on Tuesday afternoons and went to an all-girls private Catholic high school. I was baptized as a baby, had my First Communion when I was 10, had my first Confession several years later and was Confirmed when I was in high school. I jumped all the hoops and toed all the proper lines. Did I enjoy being Catholic? Nope. Going to church seemed to be more of a chore than anything else. I found no enlightenment in the music, in the gospels, in any of it. I went because my parents told me to go. When I was younger, I never understood why my parents didn’t want me going to church with my friends. They believed that if it wasn’t a Catholic church then it didn’t “count”. As I got older, I could go with my friends, as long as I went to our church on Saturday night as well. And that’s an awful lot of church. I went to youth group meetings with my friends at their churches and that was fun. My parents were always disappointed that I didn’t go to our church’s youth group. But it just wasn’t as fun. Besides, we played “Capture the Flag” at Heather’s youth group.

As I got older and left home, I stopped going to church altogether. There wasn’t room in University life for church. When I got married, I didn’t go either. I only went when I was at home visiting my parents. When my oldest son was born, we got him baptized at the Catholic church here in town because it was I thought I should do. We tried going for a while. But it was no different than it was when I was growing up. I was just killing time. I felt no connection and no inspiration. So we stopped going.

Then I met my friend Teri at Storytime at our nearby library. I was aching for some sort of playgroup to take Harry to about then. I was very lonely and isolated at home alone. She was starting up a MOPS group and they were meeting at her church (Southern Baptist) down at the south end of town. Would I be interested? Heck ya! So I went. And I loved it. There wasn’t much if any religious pressure. I never got the feeling that I needed to go to church or be religious to be a part of that group. But once a year or more, they’d present the “gospel message” and during those meetings I felt VERY uncomfortable. I felt like I was being preached to.

Still, I enjoyed the group and got to know more of the members of that church. The pastor came to speak at a couple of our meetings on some non-religious related subjects and I really enjoyed listening to him speak. So I told Kile that I’d like to go to church there one Sunday, check it out. And we did. It was okay. I liked it better than the Catholic church, but still felt a little disconnected. Still, I knew people there and the music was catchy and I enjoyed it. Kile did too, to some degree. And then, Jackson happened. We’d gone to church there the Sunday I found out I was pregnant, I remember that much. We continued to go during the pregnancy, though less and less as the months wore on.

Then, we lost that baby. I was still heavily involved in the MOPS group at that time. When news reached my sister in law in Elko, she called the church office to tell them. The gal working the desk at the church office was part of the MOPS group as well so I knew her. She was there, along with a pastor from another church (since the regular pastor was away on church business that day), when I was released from recovery and wheeled up to my room after the c-section. Just like that. She didn’t say much, but gave me hugs and reassurances. That meant a lot. Also, the regular pastor called while I was still in recovery to apologize that he couldn’t be there as he was in San Francisco. But that he would come by and see us the next morning, as soon as he was back in town. I was amazed and again, touched. The support I felt from that church was overwhelming.

True to his word, the pastor showed up the next morning. Right on time. He didn’t preach, but he tried to make us feel better. And he did. When he asked about service arrangements, and saw we were unsure about what to do, he told us not to worry. One of the church members worked a funeral home and would be happy to help out. Here’s his number. He also happened to be the husband of one of the gals I went to MOPS with. The pastor would also be happy to officiate at the service, if we wanted. We did. I also felt I should ask the Catholic priest at the church we had attended briefly. If for no other reason than for my parents who would be there. The pastor was fine with that and encouraged it. We called up the Catholic church and my husband set up the details. To say the reception we got from that church was less warm is a vast understatement. But the priest said he would be there for the service. He never once offered to visit with us, however.

A week later was the service. The funeral home was there, as was the pastor by the time we arrived at the cemetery. We hadn’t had to pay a dime for the service. Just for the cemetery plot. I’m not entirely sure how that worked out, as we were never given an explanation. But I have a feeling the Baptist church paid for it. Considering our tighter than tight budget at the time (we were in the middle of buying our first house), we were very appreciative. It got to be about ten minutes after the service was set to begin and the Catholic priest hadn’t showed up yet. The pastor, bless his heart, volunteered to call and see if he’d gotten delayed. He was assured the priest was on his way, but was running a little behind. He finally showed up, a good twenty minutes late. That sort of felt like the straw breaking the camel’s back.

In the weeks that followed, the Baptist pastor would call us, occasionally, to see how we were doing. And we went back to church there and for once, I was INSPIRED. It felt like the message was aimed just at me, every week. The music lifted my spirit and comforted me. I clung onto that relief and hope and comfort in those early weeks and months. In the night, when the crying threatened to consume my very being, I would hold onto that faith in God that was I nurturing and would feel peace. The sleep would come and I would rest. I don’t know what I would have done, had I not had God to turn to. I will never get over losing Jackson, but my faith has seen me through.

Since then, we’ve become members of that Baptist church. For the most part, we attend church every Sunday. For the first time in my life, the message holds meaning to me. I am uplifted and inspired and genuinely enjoy myself. I’ve also taken a more active role in my MOPS group, feeling that it has been a large part of my salvation these last few years. And I want to pay it back, a little.

Do I believe that the Baptists have it all right? Not really. Do I think any one religion has it all right? Nope. But when I needed them, that church was there for me and my family. Without question. Without wanting anything else in return. And to me, that’s what really matters when it comes to going to church. Where do you feel at home? Who do you feel at home with? We feel at home at that church. We don’t always agree with everything that church stands for and we definitely don’t agree with them when it comes to politics. But that’s not what church is about to us. Faith and belief are so much more than church and religion. This is just a place we go once a week to fellowship with others and hear and inspiring message, sing some beautiful songs. And that’s all. We know what we believe in our hearts and we know that is what is most important.

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