Waiting Patiently

I've always been jealous of those who say they can hear God speak to them. (Yes, I know envy is one of the seven deadly sins. I KNOW! So is gluttony, but that knowledge doesn't typically come between me and my Oreos.)

Quite honestly, I don't ever remember God speaking directly to me. Through Father Reidman and Sister Veronica Ann, maybe. But directly to me? I'm pretty sure I would have remembered that. I think if He initiated conversation with me, He'd actually enjoy it. But He seems to be busy doing other things like... oh, I don't know... creating the universe and monitoring world wars and tending to all the starving and diseased and impoverished inhabitants of our planet.

He's busy. I get it.

But sometimes, I really want to hear Him. Sometimes, I really want Him to say, "Hey, Katrina! How's it going? Been a long time since I've seen you in the Confessional, huh?" And, of course, I'd have to agree.

Perhaps we'd talk about our favorite singers or authors...

ME: Wow, God, you really gave Jonathan Franzen a lot of talent. Maybe You should have spread that around a bit.

GOD: Yes, I did, Katrina. And there's no need to live in scarcity. There's plenty of talent to go around.

ME: Yeah, I just learned all about scarcity and abundance. I'm working on that. So how about John Mayer? He's pretty easy on the eyes -- one of my favorite creations of Yours. You really outdid yourself on him.

GOD: Yes, I designed him just for you. And I knew you'd enjoy those crazy faces he makes while he's playing, too, so I threw that in for good measure.

ME: You're good, God. God is good.

GOD: Indeed.

You get the gist. Unfortunately, He just doesn't seem to want to engage on my terms.

Today, however, was different. Today, I'm pretty convinced that I heard Him. I was riding my bike in the country, getting all angsty about the possibility of a new job, grad school, new business ventures for Chris, etc., etc. I tend to not be very patient when I don't know how things are going to play out. I tend to want to know what's happening, when it's happening, how it's going to happen, and what every repercussion will be. And if you can throw in an itinerary with all the critical dates and times highlighted, that would just make my day. I might have a teensy-weensy bit of a control issue. Maybe.

So, there I was peddling along, listening to some Indigo Girls, and letting my brain overload itself with "What If? What If? What If?"

And all of a sudden, the music quieted, and somewhere inside my helmet, I heard, "Be still. Open your heart, and let me bring it to you."

SERIOUSLY, GOD?

BE STILL??

LET ME BRING IT TO YOU??

How about I meet you halfway?

Being still is like asking me to eat a live spider or or listen to Kidz Bop for 10 hours straight. It's just not within my realm of possibilities.

Be still?

And just to prove His point, a calmness washed over me like the warm flush of a good Cabernet.

Be still.

I'm working on it. I really am. When my mind starts going in a million different directions, I try to remember that heavenly, warm, red wine message.

After some contemplation, I'm a little concerned that perhaps He's been talking to me for the past 40 years, and I've been too busy to listen.

But I'm listening now. And I'm waiting. And I'm even trying to be patient.

He's bringing something my way. I can feel it.

Shhh... I can't talk right now. God's calling...

Home Churching

We joke about “home churching” our kids when friends ask us about our religious beliefs. “Home churching is a lot like home schooling,” we explain. “Except that diagramming sentences takes a back seat to God.”


But a quick conversation with my BFF this morning made me think a great deal about why this truly has become our modus operandi.

I was born with Catholicism coursing through my veins. I attended Catholic school for eight years. I wore the plaid, pleated skirt (with my athletic shorts underneath for those high-intensity kickball and dodge ball games), genuflected when appropriate, confessed (most of) my sins to my beloved priest, learned the Ten Commandments under the watchful eye of Sister Helen Therese. I am Catholic. I will always be Catholic. It is part of who I am -- just as much as my blue eyes come from my wayward father and my sense of humor comes from my witty and sarcastic mother.

For all eternity, I will be grateful for my Catholic upbringing. I cling to the traditions and teachings of my youth more than I willingly admit. Do I believe everything the Catholic church teaches? Not by a long shot. But I believe in the beauty, the wonder, the tradition, the mystique of Catholicism. Always have. Always will.

Chris was raised in the Methodist church. He won’t admit to it now, but as a teenager, he did the Methodist church tour as part of a singing duo known as “Christian and Quick.” (And he’ll KILL me for posting that.) I reveal that detail, however, to illuminate the fact that he was not just a Sunday morning Methodist. He was a METHODIST. His belief system was as integral a part of of his youth as mine was.

And there lies the rub.

When we first began talking about marriage, religion continued to rear its ugly head. As a good Catholic girl, I swore I would never raise my kids anywhere but in the arms of those who had received all the same sacraments I had. As a staunch Methodist boy, he was unwilling to comply.

And that, my friends, was nearly the beginning of the end.

So, what did I do? I prayed. I said the Rosary. I communed with the Holy Spirit, I drank a lot. I asked God for guidance.

And His answer surprised me.

Because I found myself releasing my vise grip on the beliefs taught to me via my beloved organized religion. I didn’t release my grip on my own beliefs -- just on some of the teachings that never really settled well with me to begin with.

And that was the beginning of a long journey of religious reflection.

In college, I studied Catholicism, Judaism, Buddhism, Lutheranism... If it was organized and had a name, I couldn’t get enough of it. I read the Bible -- both as an instrument of faith and as a work of literature.

My own religion, in turn, became more internalized, more private, more reverent.

But my God never changed.

I went to Methodist churches, Lutheran churches, Episcopalian churches.

And my God never changed.

My realization wasn’t earth-shattering, but it was a personal awakening. I believe in God. Not the Catholic God. Not Buddha. Not Jehovah. But God. My God. In all His many forms.

Do I believe that my God is the only God? Well, I believe that there is just one God. But who am I to say that He doesn’t manifest himself in different ways to different people across the earth? Perhaps the Native Americans saw Him as the wind and the rain. And perhaps that windy, rainy God was the same God that I rely on every day of my life.

My big personal awakening was that I don’t believe in a religion. I believe in God. I believe in a moral compass that guides my life and the lives of my children. (Well, all my children except for George. We’ll still working on that one.) God -- to me -- does not equal religion. God is goodness, kindness, acceptance, love. He is the Golden Rule.

My belief system may not be right. But I did not come by it lightly. I will never take it for granted, and I would never force it onto someone else.

I would much rather live my life, my faith, my beliefs by my actions than by my words. Will I fuck it up? Most certainly. That’s part of being human. (So is my inclination toward profanity.)

The funny thing about me is that I love to go to church. A traditional Mass thrills me to no end. I love to see how other people celebrate their own individual beliefs. I must admit I’m not a big fan of the big screen TV churches. I prefer the quaint quiet of a musty chapel and an intricately carved crucifix. But I would never begrudge anyone the joy of worshipping where they are most comforted, where they are most secure.

It’s just that for me, that some place tends to be with my kids and my husband and the other people I hold most dear. Sometimes it’s in our home, sometimes it’s riding our bikes, sometimes it’s camping in the woods, sometimes it’s playing Scrabble in Brown County. My sanctuary -- and where I feel closest to my God -- is when the “religion” part of my religion is not first and foremost.

I understand that blogging about God is like opening a Pandora’s Box. I might as well say that my political beliefs lean toward socialism and that I have sex with goats. (That got you thinking, didn’t it? You’re wondering which -- if either -- of those statements is true, aren’t you?)

So, I feel I must state that I DON’T believe my beliefs are the right way, the only way, the chosen way. I love good, honest, sincere people -- black, white, green, Asian, Jewish, bipolar, fat, skinny. It just doesn’t matter.

What matters is a kind, caring, generous heart. What matters is that we’re all taking this journey together. We’re each carving our own path, but those paths -- when you look closely at them -- really aren’t so different after all.

I’ll never force you to take my path, but you’re always welcome to join me. And if you need me to walk with you for awhile, I’m happy to meander your way.

That, to me, is what God is all about.

God and Thank You Notes

I feel as if I'm failing my children in two significant areas of life. First and foremost, I feel they are missing out on the gift of a religious upbringing--something that both Chris and I were blessed with. It's not that I don't have a strong belief in God myself, it's just that Chris and I can't seem to find a place where we both feel comfortable. And we can't seem to drag our asses out of bed on a Sunday morning, either. The combination is proving morally lethal for our kids. When George first began preschool at the local Methodist church, his teacher asked each of the children what they would give Jesus as a birthday present. The other religiously well-fed children said things such as "a lamb, a warm blanket, a winter coat." George, however, informed his teacher that the perfect gift for Jesus would be a "Bowling For Soup" CD. Why wouldn't he enjoy hearing "1985?" We sang it all the time. Heck, we even went to the "Bowling For Soup" concert at the House of Blues when we were in Myrtle Beach. Apparently, George didn't want Jesus to miss out on some serious rocking.

So, my first concern is that my kids don't really know much about God, Jesus, the Bible, and all things associated. We're good people at heart; we live (as much as possible) by the Golden Rule, but my kids couldn't tell you what the Golden Rule is. I am a firm believer in the Ten Commandments, but my kids think that the Ten Commandments begin with "Thou Shalt Brush Thy Teeth Twice Every Day." One of the greatest gifts my Mom gave me as a child was a Catholic school education. Growing up without a father wasn't easy, but growing up without God would have been much harder. I talk to my kids about God, but I know they don't quite "get it." He's right there with Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. Maybe a few steps ahead of the St. Patrick's Day leprechaun that also passes for the Lucky Charms mascot. I definitely need to step up to the plate. Father, forgive me, for I have sinned. It's been over a year since I took my kids to church on a Sunday other than Easter or Christmas. Four Hail Mary's isn't going to save them now.

My other misgiving is in my inability to teach my kids the proper thank-you note writing etiquette. When I was growing up, not writing a timely and thoughtful thank-you note was akin to committing a mortal sin. (See the previous paragraphs for the Catholic school reference.) I used to LOVE writing thank you notes. I could schmooze with the best of them, and I adored describing in full detail how perfect my Easy Bake Oven really was. Once I had four kids in five years, I couldn't even remember how to spell "thank you." I was so sleep-deprived and reeking constantly of spit-up that a trip to the Hallmark Store for a box of notecards was as elusive as an all-expense paid trip to Hawaii. So, I gradually stopped being grateful on paper, and my kids have never learned the art of thank-you writing themselves. Now that they're older and can bathe and wipe themselves (well, at least most of them can), I've realized with horror that this essential lifeskill is an unknown entity to my kids. I'm sure my mom is ashamed. I know my aunts and uncles are appalled. No one is as embarrassed as I am, though.

We're going to sit down as a family tomorrow and pray to God to help us learn to write a proper thank you.