I grew up Catholic. For a bit of reference for those who didn’t, this meant that Sundays, religious holidays, and Wednesdays after school for CCD (Catechism) were the benchmarks of my religious upbringing. My Grandma Jan also took me to Sunday school at a small country Lutheran church before CCD started in the first grade.
I loved going to church. I loved to singing most of all and I was so happy and peaceful when I got to do that. I didn’t know it then, because I didn’t have the words, I was filled with the Spirit even back then in those moments. I loved Jesus before I even knew better.
I loved Sunday school too. The story of Noah’s Ark was my absolute favorite because of all the animals and the song “Who Built the Ark?” famous throughout the world probably during the 80s. It also had the best picture in my Children’s Bible. That section would get worn out over the years as I told the story to my brother and sister.
The first time the church hurt me was during CCD in first grade. The priest visited our class in preparation for our First Communion. For non-Catholics, in simplest terms, First Communion is the first time you take the bread and wine at church in remembrance of Jesus Christ. It’s really the first time in the Catholic church that you say, “I’m with him” in your own voice and actions.
The priest was talking to us about Adam and Eve and for whatever reason he singled me out. He hovered menacingly over me and looked down at me sitting at my wooden desk like a bug he didn’t want to touch. He wasn’t scanning the class or anything. It was like he was only talking to me.
This guy was old and scary to begin with, but I was a seven, at most, quiet, sweet, considerate, good little girl. This man looked down at me like I was a demon and told me I was responsible for original sin. That I was sinful by nature and needed to repent every day for that sin. If the devil had been in me, he’d been scared out of me by that priest. He went on to say it to all the girls, being likened to Eve. The boys didn’t get so much as a sharp word.
After that I still loved church. I think I know God even then just by singing to Him. But a little of the joy came out whenever I saw the priest. I was too little to understand but I felt something wasn’t right. The Jesus I knew loved me didn’t blame me for someone else’s mistakes.
I learned the Lord’s Prayer, Hail Mary, Apostle and Nicene Creeds, all about the Catholic sacraments and honestly I loved learning about all of it. I learned Bible stories and my life was built around them. I stuck up for people who couldn’t and made friends with the new kids.
Eventually that studying led to first confession than communion. During all this I made friends at school. Normal public school, which was why I had to attend CCD after school on Wednesdays. My two best friends were Tracy and Rachel. Tracy was Lutheran and Rachel was Baptist. Tracy and I were going through a lot of the same ceremonies and I think I might have gone to church with her a couple times. I never really heard about Rachel’s church as much until we were all coming into eighth grade, which for Catholics was the year of confirmation.
I was still going to CCD, which was at night by then, but I was also being exposed to different viewpoints through my closest friends. I don’t think they really meant any harm to me, but as the only Catholic their questions would sometimes take on an edgy quality almost a snooty tone. Do you really worship Mary? Are you Christian? Why do you get baptized as a baby? I found myself defending the Hail Mary and First Communion like I was a Satan worshipper because I wasn’t raised to read The Bible for myself and could dance.
By then, I already thought some of what I was learning in CCD didn’t feel right, priest’s not withstanding. As a result, I told my parents I wanted to quit CCD and study The Bible myself. That was one of the many fights my mom and I would have while I was in that age range but definitely the worst. I later found out that she got chewed out by her mother for letting me quit. Until my grandpa debated me in Catholic issues like abortion later that year. It eased up after that.
Finally, the week after my 14th birthday at Rachel’s birthday party, I was saved in her basement. It was the first time of many incredible moments where I felt God. The Holy Spirit entered me and I wept. I’m talking full force ugly cry in front of all my friends and Rachel’s mom. Rachel and her mom also cried after they walked me through the very simple process of stating with a whole heart,
I am a sinner and I would go to Hell for my sins. I believe Jesus died for my sins and I give my life to him. I accept his grace.
I don’t think I was a horrible teenager by the world’s standards but by eighth grade I’d seen some stuff kids shouldn’t. I picked up swearing and small rebellions like wearing the grunge shirt my mom hated or giving my dating friends extra time to say good-bye. Once I was saved, I changed overnight. The swearing disappeared. I was more considerate to everyone, more emotional, more charitable and generous. I hadn’t stopped being these things, but they became more prevalent than hairstyles, alternative rock, makeup and boys.
My brother would later razz me when he got a PS2 for his confirmation that he got to be first for a change. But I got saved because I loved Jesus and it felt right. I never told my family because they wouldn’t have understood what it meant. Not in the same way. It was between me and God.
Until God told me to tell my story.
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