Stolen Moment of Faith

I grew up in the Midwest, in a small town clustered on the bend of a river. I grew up with traditions that emphasized the importance of conformity. Within the church, it is believed that you were born a sinner and could only be saved with repentance, giving your life to the established doctrine, to become a "good Christian". Within the family, church values continue with an emphasis on showing a good face to the outside world. To avoid bringing shame on the family, you hide the sinful nature of your true self. Any difference of family or church values is dealt with in strict silence. Silence is used to smother the problem. Without oxygen the problem will slowly shrivel until it is forgotten. Without the energy of expression, the problem will atrophy like a useless limb, dejectedly hanging off the psyche. Traditions demand projecting a "good face" rather than admitting a weakness. Weakness will divide the family, bringing sin into its protective circle. Silence is a resilient buffer that serves to exile those who stray. Silence kept the outside world from penetrating the community circle. In this way, what is not acknowledged does not exist. Life is carefully constructed around an ideal that has been carefully maintained for generations.

From the time I was a young girl, I was very independant. Left on my own, I liked to venture in the woods or could be found with my nose in a book. The neighbors were wary of my family, we were poor and living in public housing: a sure sign of "trouble". I did not like their prissy daughters who kissed trees as their "boyfriends" and played with expensive dolls with fish eyes. My clothes were hand-me-downs. With a mighty exhale I could pop the button of my too-tight jeans. My scrawny arms stuck out of the scant sleeves of my shirt like a palm tree reaching for the sun. My hair defied bows and barrettes by sticking up; I am "different". My childhood memories are conflicting images: of my inner world and the façade I was expected to show.

I was so proud to receive my First Communion, yet had many questions as to who this All-Powerful, All-Knowing, All-Seeing-God-guy was. Bible school was interesting, but I wasn’t satisfied with what I was learning. I vividly recall walking to the front of the church, where the pews and somber stained glass windows were clouded by spicy scented smoke rising from censers. Under the flickering candles, I knelt before a priest who whispered words in Latin; words I did not understand but I felt a sacred rhythm spiral around my body. I tilted my head to receive the Communion wafer, a dry circle upon my tongue. I was careful not to bite into the wafer, not to swallow. Instead I carried the wafer on my tongue, back to the hard seat of the pew, and spat it into my upturned palm.

As my finger traced the lines of the delicate cross cut into the wafer, Reba Jeanne hissed at me, "You're not supposed to take that! I'll tell!" Reba Jeanne was named after a Country music star and a Saint, as a result she prayed in a nasally twang, and her conscious two-stepped between purity and rancor.
Reba Jeanne became my enemy when she kicked my brother between the legs with the pointed, metal toe of her Patsy Cline-wanna-be boots. My brother did not fall to pieces. Instead, he became a man in the eyes of schoolyard boys because he withstood the lethal blow without shedding one tear.
" What's the use in telling? ", I taunted, "God already knows what I've done!"I saved the wafer until after mass. I then took the wafer outside church, holding it up to the sky, in all of its paper-thin glory. I wondered if God would strike me down, or if He would send Reba Jeanne to finish me off. When nothing happened, I was convinced that God was not sitting on a throne in Heaven judging people, and weighing sins on a gilt scale. As I closed my fingers over the wafer, warmth filled my palm.

From that moment on, I began to trust in my spiritual sense. The warmth of the wafer in my palm was so reassuring. Instead of damnation I was met with a sense of peace. The turmoil I felt was lifted away. As a child, I reasoned that God gave people a spiritual sense (or intuition) to reward faith, to reward the hard work of going beyond fixed traditions. Intuition provides a connection to what is not readily seen. I wondered if people were not meant to see everything. With sight comes the impulse to judge, to measure, to sell a new product displayed by a bony model in a string bikini. By not seeing, we question, search, and are led into vast horizons.

Lynn Mari, ©2006