I was raised Catholic.
I was even raised “Traditional Catholic”.
That means mass in Latin, never wearing pants and a whole plethora of “rules”.
I knew all the prayers.
I could recite my Catechism.
I could rattle off the Stations of the Cross.
I was even homeschooled using a Catholic curriculum.
Problem with all of that…
I never really learned what it meant to be Catholic.
We stopped going to church sometime in middle school.
I didn’t feel like I was missing anything.
I didn’t think about much about it.
When I was 17 I moved to Colorado for school.
I was here without any friends or family.
I felt alone. Very alone.
That first weekend I stepped through the doors of the local Catholic Church.
I didn’t feel so alone anymore.
For a couple hours each Sunday I felt at home.
I still made my share of poor choices.
I still put myself in bad situations.
But for a few hours each week I felt all right.
Then I stopped attending.
And I made excuses for not showing up.
But for the important moments in my life I found myself back at those church doors.
The church doors that I had walked through when I was 17 and alone.
Greg and I were married in this church.
Brady was baptized in this church.
Rachel is going to receive her First Holy Communion in this church.
It feels like home again.
I’m still learning what I need for my own spiritual journey.
But I’ll figure it out…
I may not be able to recite my catechism.
I may not know all of the Stations of the Cross by memory.
But I’ll figure it out…
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