Come Rain, Hell, or a High Fever.

This entry may touch on a sensitive, provocative topic, but it's something I can't ignore.  I know everyone has their own code of beliefs.  Call it what you'd like... religion... spirituality... ethics... God?  There are probably a hundred different, unique ways of wording it!?  That having been said, I look to explain my personal experience, not to offend anyone who might read this.

Since little man arrived, I've been casting my thoughts out to something higher, something greater than myself.  I suppose you might say I've been praying.  This is new to me.  I know, you're probably groaning at this admission, but it's true.  I haven't prayed, and didn't pray, until just recently.  I'm being honest.  I admit it!  Let me try to better explain myself...

Let's see, where do I begin?  I grew up going to church.  I was baptized a Catholic.  I sang in the choir.  In fact, I may well have been the congregation's youngest member at the age of five.  Continuing, I skipped down the aisle at First Communion, begrudgingly went to reconciliation, and took the name "Maria" upon receiving the sacrament of Confirmation.  My Father actually taught Sunday school, or "religious education" as he liked to say.  I have, or had rather, a relationship with Christianity since my earliest days. 

In the last ten years or so, I've been something of a non-believer.  In my opinion, the stories the priests told and the homilies they presented were boring, usually irrelevant, and seemingly, a waste of precious time.  I found amusement only in the songs I tried to sing, loudly with grace. 

I suppose I also resented "going to church."  Come rain, hell, or a high fever, I had to go to church.  I couldn't spend the night off at a girlfriend's house and politely excuse myself from attending.  I was required, as an active member of the Mulligan family, to selflessly devote just one hour, which sometimes meant two, to the greater good at St. Mary's.  I don't think I was too terribly different from any other child, but I certainly let out a sigh of relief when I followed the exiting procession quickly to our car. 

In writing this statement now, I'm not actually saying I adhere to any one distinct body of theological opinion, but the pure idea of believing in something more profound feels good.  With so many uncertainties about life and parenthood, for that matter, it's just about all I want besides love.  I used to wonder why my Father clung so tightly to his religion after my Mother left.  I grew tired of hearing the "God gives this" or "I pray because" spiel, but it makes total sense now. 

I think I just had one of those "a-ha" moments, when what your parents said or quietly did so long ago, finally takes stock.  I'm thankful, in moments of confusion, joy, and mild despair, my Father taught me where to go and who to talk to.  I guess what I'm learning, is that we all call him, or her, by a different name.