I grew up Catholic. Hand-picked flowers on the altar in our living room to Mary every May, eating fish on Fridays during Lent and weekly visits to the confessional. I can instantly recall the smell of the oils the Altar Society ladies used on the pews and the scent of incense the priest would waft over the congregation on special holy days. I can’t hear the phrase “the peace of the Lord be with you” without instantly replying “and also with you.”

Despite the ingrained Catholicism, I haven’t been to Mass in a couple of years, and I no longer feel guilty about not going.

My reasons for not attending Mass have nothing to do with my faith. That is strong and intact. I believe in God. I believe in Jesus being our Savior, that Mary is a patron saint for mothers and that St. Anthony has always helped me find all lost things and will always do so. I say a rosary every morning and I talk to God every day, much as a daughter would talk to her father.

Belief isn’t the reason I don’t attend Mass any more. It’s the people, and it’s uncanny the way something happens every time I go to Mass to convince me that a fancy church building isn’t the place for me.

This break came a few years ago. A deacon in the parish I attended for over 20 years was fired because of some petty people who worked in the church office. This deacon encouraged my son to return to the faith. He held our congregation together during tough times and he lived the words of Christ, even while his son was dying of cancer. His booming voice and boisterous spirit infused all of us with the belief that God was truly alive. When the smear campaign happened, hundreds of us stood up for him, but the bureaucracy had their way and many of us left that parish, heartbroken.

We moved, and I thought I’d start over. I went to a smaller Catholic church and attended a youth Mass one Sunday. I approached the woman in charge and told her I was new to the parish and that I had 25 years of experience teaching CCE to teens. She looked at me and said “that’s nice,” and walked off. I was stunned as religious education teachers are hard to come by. I continued to go to Mass there, but I stood in the back of the church where every week, something happened where I could fill a need with the other quiet people standing in the back. I figured God was trying to tell me to stay there.

But the call to pass on my faith pulled at me. A few months later, I saw there was a ministry fair. I told the ladies at the table what had happened and told me they needed me in the parish. I gave them my email address and cell phone number. I went into Mas that day hopeful, thinking of the lessons I’d taught that were my favorites and that I could resurrect them.

I never heard from the parish.

So I went to other Catholic churches, always standing in the back, never feeling part of the church family. I didn’t reach out but no one reached out to me either. When an announcement was made that a new church was being built in my city, I rejoiced, thinking this was a fresh start. Then I saw the list of those in charge of religious education, and it was the same small-minded, vindictive people who’d been at my previous parish.

After months of smoldering resentments, I talked to the deacon who’d been wronged, and he told me I shouldn’t let people keep me from celebrating Mass. “Forgive, my daughter,” was his advice. I tried but resentments are difficult to dissolve.

But I thought a new church would be a good start. My first time to go to the new church, I hadn’t made it to the back door when my cell phone rang. It was a friend needing someone to talk to.

The second time was today. I sat down, four chairs from the aisle with an empty seat between me and the couple at the end. A woman came in and sat to my right. Before Mass started, a woman and her daughter looked to see if they could sit on our row – this church is pretty packed. I asked the woman to my right if she’d move over. She refused.

Stunned, I stepped out of that row and told the mother and daughter they could have my seat and that empty one to my left. The mother didn’t want to take my spot, but I assured her I wouldn’t be there long. I stood in the back again, and five minutes later, my son called, and I left, talking to him as I made my way back to my car.

Now some would say this was the devil, seeing if he could get me to stop believing. I disagree. I could never be anything but Catholic, the doctrines, rituals and tenants part of my religious fabric. I still look to former priests, people in my family and religious leaders for inspiration because these few live their faith every single day.

But organized religion is ruined for me because of people. People like the woman who wouldn’t give up her seat this morning because the mother and daughter were foreigners. The petty church leaders who fired a wonderful deacon because they were jealous of his popularity and his unencumbered spirit.

I know all churches are filled with sinners looking for redemption. I also know there are genuinely good and kind people not only sitting in the pews but on the altars, in the pulpits and in the religious education classrooms. They spread the word of God in their words and actions every single day.

But I’ve encountered too many people who say the words of God but don’t live them. The biggest difference between me and the front-row sitters is that I know and admit I’m a sinner. I know I need God in my life every day to steer me toward where I can be His servant and how I can best serve him.

And that’s not from a church pew.

I shall continue to find ways to live as I think God would want me to – to constantly be on the lookout for ways I can help people in need, whether that’s taking time to listen to a friend in trouble, helping someone financially or giving up my seat to someone whose skin color is different than mine. Whether or not they believe in God doesn’t matter to me – their actions matter, and one does not need a religious affiliation card to have a caring and kind soul.

When I taught CCE, one of the questions I always asked the teens was if Jesus attended Mass today, where would He sit? Some said Jesus would sit in the front. Others said in the middle. Invariably, one would say that Jesus would stand in the back. I agreed. Jesus, I think, would be in the back with those who feel unworthy to be inside, those looking to quickly leave when they feel overwhelmed. If Jesus could rescue one – just one – then it would be a good day in heaven.

So I worship and pray by myself, but I’m not alone. God is with me every moment, every hour, every day. My faith is unshakable. I pray for those I love, my enemies and those in need of a kind word, a smile and encouragement.

And try to never forget the sad feeling of being alone in a church filled with people but feeling totally at peace when alone with God.

“I have your chair,” my cousin, Sylvia, told me at a recent family reunion.

My face must’ve registered confusion, so Sylvia reminded me that she’d borrowed the chair from me over 20 years ago.

At the time, Sylvia was teaching pre-kindergarten, and she said she was looking for a small chair for students who needed a little quiet time. She spotted a rocker in my living room that belonged to my then 6-year-old.

I’d gotten the chair when Nick was a toddler, and he spent many hours rocking in that chair, turning it upside-down to serve as a mountain and covering the chair in blankets to use as a fort. Now he was too big for the chair, and I knew Sylvia would take good care of it.

I told her to take the chair, but asked if I could get it back when she was finished.

She agreed, and 30 years later, Sylvia remembered her promise. The reason I was getting the chair back was because Sylvia was retiring after 30-plus years as a teacher. The teaching profession is losing one of the best educators around because Sylvia’s a born teacher who absolutely adores her students, always has a smile on her face and believes children learn best in an atmosphere of understanding and love.

For over three decades, she was an enthusiastic teacher for 4-year-olds. She sang songs with them, got on the floor and played games and taught thousands of children how to be happy and successful.

She also taught them how to be a good friend and how to manage their emotions.

One of the tools she used was the rocking chair. She transformed our plain chair by painting it grass-green and adding hand-designed iguanas and red-and-yellow snakes on the arms and back.

The chair was nicknamed the “peace chair” or, as Sylvia laughed, the “place-to-get-your-stuff-together” chair. When youngsters needed time to calm down, she gently guided them to the chair, and told them to spend some time thinking and rocking.

And rock they did. The paint on the sides of the arms is worn away from little fingers holding on tight to the arms as they rocked.

“They’d rock like maniacs in that chair,” Sylvia said with a laugh, and she said it wasn’t unusual to find a child wrapped up in his or her favorite blanket, rocking away until they felt safe and secure again.

I’m so happy that chair provided comfort to so many youngsters, because that’s what a rocking chair is all about. A rocking chair is also the best place for a parent to snuggle up with a colicky baby or calm down a screaming toddler.

No matter our age, we can sit in a rocking chair and rock away our problems and worries. It doesn’t matter if the chair’s padded and located in the living room or it’s an old wooden chair on the back porch.

I brought the chair home, and our grandchildren came for a visit the next day. The minute our 2-year-old grandson saw the chair, he said “mine,” and sat right down. With his little fingers, he traced the colorful snake design on the arm of the chair and then settled in with his favorite stuffed animal.

Something tells me that little green chair will always be needed, whether it’s in a living room or a classroom. And a child will know that if they need to get their “stuff together,” nothing beats that back-and-forth rhythm that only a well-loved rocking chair that’s just the right size can provide.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

As a lover of words, I find myself scouring the Internet for interesting articles after I’ve finished the printed newspaper and the latest book I’ve checked out from the library.

I’ll read the top news stories and, when I’ve finally had enough of the shenanigans of the people we elected to pass laws in this country, I look for off-beat and quirky articles.

I came across a link for a blog posting the writer’s opinion on the top overrated tourist destinations in the country. As we’re planning a trip to the New England area, I clicked on the link to see if the writer mentioned any cities where we’re headed and if we should rethink where we want to visit.

Glancing over the list, I realized I’ve been to a lot of the places he mentioned. As I kept reading, I found myself disagreeing with most of the things in the essay.

But by the time I got to the last paragraph, I realized this guy is the biggest snob I’ve come across in a long time. He gets his kicks, and attracts blog readers, with ridicule and a snarky attitude.

He mentioned that Asheville, N.C. was “sadly average and overpriced.” Our stay there was luxurious and affordable, including my first experience with a bed and breakfast.

The owners of the B&B were some of the most gracious people I’ve ever met, and they treated my sisters, mom and me like queens.

Our primary reason to visit was to see the 250-room Biltmore, and the estate was overwhelming in its grandiosity and a glimpse into a part of our nation’s past. I found the place fascinating, certainly not average.

His disdain about Colorado was pure snobbery – “the state is too often either uptight or boring.” I’ve been to Colorado a couple of times, and “boring” is not a word I’d use to describe the rugged Rocky Mountains and some of the most colorful meadows and valleys I’ve ever seen.

He also bashed San Francisco with a snotty comment about the smell of body odor “rising off unwashed pavement.” One could say that about any sprawling metropolitan city, but if that’s all he concentrated on when visiting, then he’s missing what’s really beautiful about this coastal site.

I watched someone ride a bike up one of those steep hills, and my admiration grew for the people who have to walk or bike up those streets every day. The people in the shops were friendly and helpful and all told us to hang around and watch for the fog.

Watching the fog come in over the bay is truly a unique experience. That fog resembled a fluffy white blanket as the edge slowly crept toward the shore.

Boring? Not a bit.

But this Texas gal saw red when he bashed Austin as a “mildly entertaining town.” He’s obviously never watched the parade of creative types around the state capitol, attended an energetic “Austin City Limits” taping or eaten from one of the city’s many food trucks where one can order everything from spicy Thai to authentic Mexican to flavorful Jamaican.

Almost anybody can put on their snob hat and dismiss a city’s attempt to attract tourists or visits. That’s what sells these days – writing mean comments and hiding behind a cartoon picture on the Internet.

The real trick is to lose the snarky attitude and actually do what writers are supposed to do – dig beyond the surface and talk to the locals, the real treasure in every city and town. Through them, you’ll find the beauty and uniqueness everywhere you travel.

The next time you’re in Austin, Mr. Snooty Writer, get off that high horse, strap on some leather sandals and stroll around the capitol. While you’re there, pick up a “Keep Austin Weird” T-shirt and talk to the folks milling around the food trucks.

That’s where you’ll find what you’re looking for in these “underrated places.” The people are the real treasures, and they’re what makes any destination a memory maker.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.