“Few of us look as good as we once did. It is a fact of life, the price of getting old. We have our bumps and bruises, cuts and scrapes. Life damages us all. Even our spiritual life may not be what it once was.”
-Traveling Light by Father Thomas Connery

My spiritual life was never what it is now.

I’ve always had a strong sense of G-d, but also a terrified sense of what’s next? I was always concerned with what happens when we die. I’m still concerned, but it consumes me less. As a child, I hated going to funerals, although the one time I was given a choice on the matter, I opted to go because I was close to the woman.

Since joining the Church, I’ve attended at least six funerals in the last three months. I knew none of the deceased. I found something uplifting with the funeral message that life isn’t ended, but changed. Honestly, I’m not sure I believe it – it’s a lot like grasping at straws for me – I want it so very badly, but I still have the question in the back of my mind.
In my spiritual life, I never fit. When I did attend a religious school and temple, I disliked it in the extreme. It was too formal. Odd I know coming from someone who spends three to four mornings every week in an extremely formal ritual of Mass.

But all of the Hebrew schools I found didn’t explain anything to me. I felt unwelcome. We were either too religious or not religious enough.

We followed the rites with our children, and that was more than that it was required. I could feel the thousands of years of tradition and it felt wonderful. Even my son in the pain from his bris, I felt the connection to a place thousands of years old, thousands of miles away in the desert. It was a bit overwhelming and I remember it distinctly to this day.

There was a scene in Supernatural recently, where the character of Dean says, “Dayenu”. I’m not sure what he meant by that – it was one of those things that I let go because I just didn’t know, but I remember a song Dayenu from our Passover Seders about goats. I might be remembering it wrong. I really enjoyed those Seders. I still have my torn, scribbled on paper copy of the one we got from shul, and that was the best school I could have gone to. We learned Yiddish and the Bible stories and the traditions like reading a Haggadah for Passover and lighting Chanukah candles and watching those cheap wax candles melt so quickly, more quickly than they should have, and learning why you don’t light a Yartzeit candle until your parents die because it’s not right to do it before.

My Dad also taught me that you don’t put hats on the bed, you don’t give out more information than is asked for, you give more than you get, you don’t take gas money if you’re going in the same direction, and if someone needs a helping hand, you don’t ask why, you reach out your hand. He did these things quietly.

My mother was equally generous with her time and her money and her love, but she did it much more noisily. She didn’t expect a thank you, but it would be nice. Her family always came first. She didn’t have medical treatments because that would mean time off from work and time off from work would mean less money for the family’s needs. How in the world does a $48,000 house cost $275,000 and it’s still not enough.

My parents were smart and funny, well, my father was hilarious. He loved his kids and his grandkids more. My mother did also.

I miss them.

And in this journey through Catholicism, they’re the only ones I worry about. How would they feel? For one thing, they wouldn’t want me to be miserable hiding my feelings, hiding my faith. They wouldn’t want me suicidal. They would want me to do whatever I felt was right to take care of my kids and myself.

From the moment I walked into the church, I was welcomed, and not just welcomed, but I felt welcome. I was allowed to ask any question, even irreverent, even to the priest himself.

I really do feel as though I belong.

It’s funny, growing up and well into adulthood, I was very uncomfortable seeing crosses with Christ depicted on them. It was torture. Why is it everywhere? It wasn’t until I started attending church and when I stopped avoiding looking at the large cross which is always positioned over the Father’s shoulder when he reads the Gospel. I started really looking and feeling the empathy FROM it, not my feeling sorry towards it for His torture and murder, but the amount of comfort coming from it amazed and overwhelmed me. There was light filtering in through the skylight and the lingering smell of strong incense and the most amazing feeling of arms wrapped around me, and I knew then; it was months ago, but I knew then: I was falling and

He caught me, and he hasn’t let go, and I won’t let go either.

I understand now; just a little bit, but I do understand.