It was my church. All my children were baptized there. I was confirmed there. My daughters received their first reconciliations and communions there, from a lovely priest who isn't there anymore, and isn't the same man I fell in love with back when he arrived there.
I don't live there anymore. Not at Pius and not at any other Catholic parish.
I'm a traveler--not really a refugee, but certainly not an immigrant. I'm not going back, but I don't really have a new place yet either. Lots of reasons made me leave, after I tried so so hard to stay for so so long.
It finally got to be too much. Too much and not enough. I got tired of being told that people had hurt me, not the Church. That people had made mistakes, not the Church. That I didn't see the big picture. That I needed to be open to God's grace to forgive. I started to feel like a battered woman, always going back, always accepting the limp apology and the robust reasons why I was at fault, always convincing those around me that it was for the best, it was my faith and I couldn't not believe.
Turns out I could. Scratch that. I have a lot of faith. I just no longer genuflect before sitting at a table where I don't get fed.
Wow. This is so. well. put.ReplyDelete
That last sentence is powerful.ReplyDelete
The battered woman analogy seems so apt, the way you describe it. Sadly, I suspect this isn't unusual.ReplyDelete