I would like to preface this post with a small request. This is MY blog. Yes, I own it. Therefore, I am going to post MY thoughts, views, etc. I do not mean to offend or disrespect anyone with my writing. I also do not intend for someone to view my post as a personal invitation for them to push their views on me . As I’ve always said, if you don’t like what you read, move on to the next blog. Whew! Thanks for letting me get that off my chest.
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Even a blizzard couldn’t stop us from going there. No good Catholic misses a Christmas mass. I don’t ever go to church with my husband unless his parents are in town. This is a personal decision I made to try to make things easier for them.
When we walked into my husband’s newly constructed church, it was obvious to me the amount of money that had to be spent to construct it. The ceiling is enormous. There are hand paintings all over the walls. The walls are a yellowish color and the ceiling is painted dark blue. Pews face from all sides of the room so it must sit thousands. It feels cold and gaudy to me.
We sit down in the middle of a pew in the back and I stare at the faces around me. All different types of people surround us from middle class to the obviously upper class in their fur coats all decorated like a Christmas tree.
It is usually about this time I wish I had a Star of David around my neck so people would know I was different, even though I don’t practice my religion.
I am different than all of you, and I am proud to be different.
The service begins and everyone stands up and appears to know what to do and say except me, like a dance routine I was never taught.
Ten seconds pass, and I realize no one is sitting, but kneeling. I jab my husband in the side, and scoot slowly down the edge of the pew to kneel as he smiles at me and shakes his head as if to say don’t worry, it’s no big deal.
I like small old churches with massive mahogany doors, stained glass windows and wooden pews that smell like they’ve been freshly Pledged. I love the sound of church bells lofting through the air.
But I never feel as far away from “God” as I do when I sit inside one.
I feel “God” when I go on an early morning walk in autumn and feel the leaves crunching under my shoes, and a burst of sunlight coming through a few trees so bright you wish you had your sunglasses.
I feel “God’ surround me when I walk into the ocean and have the waves crash against me so hard I almost fall down and it makes me start laughing.
I feel “God” when I take my dog on a walk and hear silence but feel the connection between the two of us.
I feel “God” when I watch my daughter sleeping and listen to her breathe.
I do not feel “God” right now inside this church though. Where is it?
My daughter is getting agitated since the service is long. We stand up to sing, but since I don’t know the words, I just mouth them. I feel her grab my hand and then she puts my hand inside my husband’s hand. I feel the roughness of his palms and the warmth of his fingers. I look down and see L smile, proud of herself for constructing our “handhold”.
I can kind of feel “God” in my heart now.
Very sweet Amy. I feel some of Nana coming through your views on the church. You should feel proud. If she believed in heaven, she would be looking down and smiling on you now. I used to think God was a giant man when a long cane and beard when I was a kid. I thought he lived behind the Arc the Torah was kept in at the Temple—but they always said HE WAS EVERYWHERE. I always wondered why it was necessary to go to temple when he was under the table, in the palm of my hands as they told us in Sunday school. I now know God is not in any of those places—SHE lives inside of me, my kids, the ocean, the crunch of the leaves you described. Aaaah-men!