my mother is catholic.
my father is as well, although, i sometimes suspect
he is only because thats what my mother told him he was.
when we were kids we didn't go to church regularly
but once we started school,
we were required to attend
catechism or religion class as we called it...
i believe sincerely and honestly and deep in my heart
that it was the "requirement" to attend these classes
that eventually turned me cold
against organized religion.
the area that surrounded our school
was very catholic
and very close knit...
we came to the area from "in town"
and didn't speak french
with the exception of my father
and my mother worked outside the home
when most mothers didn't...
and
we didn't attend church on a regular basis
so
you can imagine
we were a little on the outside
when it came to community...
which was fine,
in most respects...
except for religion class
where i felt so lost and alone and stupid
and knew that the other kids
(who were also in my class at school)
knew that i didn't go to church
and knew as sure as shootin'
that i was going to hell...
i didn't know the prayers, the rituals, the meanings
i just pretended and tried to go along
to get along
but most of the time
i was clueless and anxious and guilt-ridden...
and when i was paranoid that the girls at the next table
were whispering and giggling
and that i was the subject,
i'm sure i was usually right in that assumption...
that said,
however...
there is a church
a beautiful, stone church
as high as the eye can see
that draws me in
and envelops me
in wonder...
but is it only my love of great, vast buildings?
or is it something deeper?
i continually have had some sort of run-in with this church
over my whole life really,
from going to see it on a field trip in grade six
to renting an apartment within looking-out-the-window
distance from it during university...
i wonder.
i wonder.
i wonder.
