Dear God, It's Me JustPat

I wasn't a pure-bred Catholic. No, I was a mongrel. My mother was Catholic, and my father was raised Methodist. And, there were other issues; my father had been divorced. His first wife left him for a friend on his softball team. He met my mom after the divorce at a dance studio. Not that it has anything to do with my faith, but it's a fun bit of my history, I think.

My mother married my father against her priest's counsel. Not because Dad was protestant, but because he was divorced. When they left the rectory, Dad asked her what she thought. She told him that it just wasn't fair. They married in the Methodist church. As a result, my mother could not partake of the Catholic sacraments for seven years.

As a child, I knew this, but I never had any bitterness attached to it. I attribute that to my mother's knowing that she made the right choice, and her willingness to accept the consequences. My mom is amazing.

In my early years, my siblings and I went to Mass on Saturday evenings with Mom and my Aunt Dorothy. My memories are few but strong. Sitting in the old Saint Francis balcony because Mom and Aunt Dorothy were in the choir. The altar so far away, and me sitting so high. The slant of the floor, and the short railing separating us from the pews below. The organ directly behind us, and the enormous sound it made. The smell of my mom's perfumed handkerchiefs in her purse. Gazing at her amber rosary.

On Sunday mornings, my grandparents - Dad's parents - picked us up to go to the Methodist Church. My dad had stopped attending the church for political reasons - a long and irrelevant story for now. My memories of the Methodist church are the signing of the attendance roster, holy communion being different and infrequent, and figuring out the alto parts of the hymns so I could harmonize with my soprano grandma. On special occasions like Easter, my dad would come. I would stand next to him so I could harmonize with him as he sang the bass line to "Up From The Grave." I still think of that every Easter. Every one.

The time came when I was eight years old, and it was time for my first communion in the Catholic Church. I'll never know the conversations between my parents leading up to this event. I was totally oblivious if ever they had one. But, I know I sensed some sort of decision brewing. I remember kneeling on the kneeler (which was not padded in those days), and praying to God, "Please God, let me be Catholic."

Something unusual happened. I've met no one who has experienced this. I was baptized by the Catholic priest and the Methodist pastor, at our Catholic church, with my two sisters and my brother. My mother's seven years had been served, which made my siblings and me eligible for Catholic baptism. That baptism made me eligible for my first holy communion the next day.

It seems like a lot of work, doesn't it? Even as I'm writing this, I am amazed at how convoluted this sanctification business really was. But, in spite of it all, I remember how I thought as a child. I remember that this was a miracle. I prayed to be Catholic, and God assured I was not only Catholic, but Protestant as well, and that everyone in my family was satisfied.

Of course, that made a big impression on my worldview, and my churchview (is that a word?). I was very aware from that time that faith in Christ was bigger than Catholic or Methodist. When I was asked to declare religion on paperwork in Catholic school, instead of Catholic I wrote "Christian." I remember the feeling of knowing that I was writing something different than the others. I remember feeling that it was important that I knew this, even if it made me different.

Does this affect my feeling for the Church today? I have no doubt. It's altogether possible that my longing for the Catholic liturgy and reverence are based in my divided Christian self from the time I was a child. In my adult years, I left Catholicism behind as I found a living relationship with Jesus in the midst of Protestant worshippers. Then again, it could be divine providence that I have been blessed to know both these worlds from my childhood. Regardless of the hidden motivations of my heart, I am thankful.