I raised in a Catholic home. My dad was baptized as a baby, but he never spoke about attending church. He did receive the sacraments of Communion and Confirmation, but as far as I knew, if wasn’t that important to him.

            His father died when my dad was around five years of age. His mother remarried shortly after, and gave birth to a goodly number of half-siblings. My dad tormented his brother and sisters and aggravated his mom to the point that she’d chase him around the house, threatening to spank him with a wooden spoon.

            If a sibling was on the phone, my dad would disconnect the call, without warning, so he could call a friend. Not Christian-like behavior, that’s for sure.

            After he graduated from high school, his mom kicked him out of the house. My dad had a job setting pins in a bowling alley. After a player had knocked down whatever pins the ball happened to hit, my dad would jump over the wall, clear away the downed pins, then jump back before the next ball could be released.

            His salary wasn’t enough to support an independent lifestyle. By that time the United States had entered WWII, so my dad enlisted.

            I don’t believe he attended church during that time period. He met my mom at a USO dance in Dayton, Ohio. He convinced her to bring him home, a small apartment that my mom shared with an older sister. When there, he’d rummage through their cabinets and demand she fix whatever food he saw. At times, it was the only food my mom and her sister had.

            But, my mom loved him. He was handsome, with a rakish smile. She was petite, slim and gorgeous. They married in May, in a hastily arranged ceremony in a local Protestant church. Eight months later my brother was born.

            I followed along a year and a half later, my sister when I was seven.

            There came a time when my parents wanted my brother and I to attend the Catholic elementary school in Dayton. To enroll, however, my parents had to show that our family were practicing Catholics.

            That’s when I was Baptized and the family began attending Mass on a regular basis.

            I loved the atmosphere of the church. Instead of paying attention to the service, which was in Latin, a language I didn’t understand, I’d stare at the stained-glass windows, telling myself the stories depicted.

            The lives of the saints intrigued me. The maintained their devotion to God despite horrendous torments. They’d die rather than denounce their faith. They’d walk through deserts in search of God. They’d walk on water if God commanded, despite believing, rightfully so, that they’d sink.

            Such stories enthralled me, for my own life was a living hell.

            To think that I was growing up in a supposedly Catholic home, yet knowing that nothing my parents did or said was holy. I was spanked with hands or belt for doing stupid things, like farting in the family room or not eating creamed corn. My brother tormented me, kicking me, punching me, pinching me, treating me the way our dad treated him.

            My sister did the same, adding additional torments since we shared a room. She’d leave her side a mess, then tell our mom that I had rumpled her blankets or dumped her clothes on the floor.

            In terms of worship, we did attend Mass, except when it snowed. I understood that the drive could have been dangerous. We’d gather in the front room, missals in hand. Dad read the Mass. We responded appropriately.

            I hated it.

            There was nothing holy in it for me: I saw it as an excuse to pretend to pray. To imitate the Mass, but without reverence. How could people who seemed to hate me sit in a circle and recite passages of the Mass, a sacred worship service, after having tortured me the rest of the week?

            During my eighth-grade year, our class was led into the church, where various religious orders gave talks about what serving with them meant. I still remember the joy I felt when I learned about a monastic order of nuns that lived in silence, offering work as a prayer to God.

            I wanted to join. Imagine living in peace after years of being tormented by my siblings and parents. Imagine not being forced to talk out loud, imagine listening to the call of birds and the whisper of the wind. Imagine living in harmony with other women who sought out that life.

            My parents wouldn’t let me, saying that I’d regret not having children. Considering how often my mother reminded me that the only purpose for my existence was to serve her for the rest of my life, I didn’t relish the idea of marriage or childbirth.

            I’d dated, some. None of the boys interested me. I hated being touched by them, based upon the fact that the only touch I’d felt was in the form of punishment. I despised googling eyes and their breath on my skin. I hated holding sweaty hands and being forced to sit thigh-to-thigh.

            I didn’t see myself sharing a home with a man, let alone bearing his children.

            To join the convent, I needed my parents’ permission, until I turned eighteen. That opportunity never arose, as after my freshman year of high school, we sold the house and drove across country, eventually settling in South San Francisco, California.

            Because I was no longer attending Catholic School, my parents enrolled me in CCD, the Confraternity of Christian Doctrine, a program that laid out what religious concepts were taught for each grade.

            The students in my class disobeyed the teacher. They talked when they should be quiet, refused to answer when called upon, chewed gum despite being told to throw it out, and wasted my time.

            By this time, I’d become somewhat jaded about faith. Catholicism had lost meaning for me ever since I wasn’t permitted to join the convent.

            After each time my dad beat me or my brother pinched me, I lay awake at night trying to come up with a way to approach a priest to ask for help. I was too afraid of what punishment would befall me if ai did such a thing, for I knew the priest would tell my parents everything I had said.

            Shortly after settling in South San Francisco, my dad began shopping around for the shortest Mass. The closest church to us was beautiful, built in the Hispanic style out of stucco and red tiles on the roof. Inside it was airy, with high ceilings coming to a point. The altar was a huge edifice, painted white with gold trim.

I loved attending services there. Something about the atmosphere enticed reverence and prayer.

However, my dad deemed the Mass too long, so he began driving us all over in search of the shortest Mass.. We attending services in Pacifica (where the priest preached fire and brimstone), Half Moon Bay, Daly City, and Burlingame. Most of the priests seemed indifferent to our presence and not one parishioner approached in greeting.

When the Mass in a San Bruno church only lasted thirty minutes, my dad declared that we would only attend service there. The church was a squat building, seeming more like an extension of the strip mall out on the El Camino Real. The inside was rather plain: it had the requisite statues of Jesus, Jospeh, and Mary, but the windows were ordinary glass. No colorful scenes depicting important stories from the Bible. No organ music swelling to a crescendo.

By now the Pope had declared that services were to be held in the vernacular of the people, so every word spoken, either by the priest or the congregation, was in English.

That part I liked. The time spent provided no respite, offered no consolation, didn’t fill my soul with a sense of awe of calm. It seemed to be a waste of thirty minutes of my life.

            By now I was seventeen, looking forward to going away to college.

            When I finally escaped my family after enrolling in the University of Southern California down in Los Angeles, I intentionally did not attend Mass.

            I told myself that I didn’t miss it, that it meant nothing, that Sunday was a time to study.

            One day I was walking back to my dorm room and heard beautiful music coming from a small, one-story building. Out front was a sign declaring it the Neumann Center. I didn’t know what purpose it served, but the familiar songs invited me inside.

            Toward the front of the building a folk group strummed guitars and pounded drums. They sang joyful songs, the entire congregation joining in. Everyone in attendance looked like me: college students of varying ages. I sat near the back, and soon found the joy returning.

            I went back the next Sunday, and then the next. A retreat was announced. I had no idea what that was, but a weekend in the woods sounded fantastic.

            On the assigned day, I boarded a bus with about thirty other people my age, plus a few adults as chaperones. The drive was joyous, with lots of singing and praying Halleluiahs. It didn’t feel artificial at all. My fellow travelers rejoiced in the Lord, in praising Him and speaking of the many ways He filled their souls.

            Our destination was a log cabin deep in the forest. When I got off the bus, my heart sang. When I looked up, the tips of the trees touched the sky, pointing to heaven. The bark was rough, an imitation of my life so far, but I felt warmth, the heat of life within.

            The needle-strewn path was soft underfoot. It comforted me, much like falling into a mother’s arms might have been, if one had such a mother.

            God came to me. He entered my very being. He made me feel loved, special, cherished.

            When time came to return to the chaos of Los Angeles and college, part of me cried inside. I wished I could have stayed in that forest, feeling the power of God’s love day after day.

            That weekend opened my eyes. I knew that I was loved, that I had a place in the church. I didn’t yet know in what shape my calling would arrive, but I knew it was out there, waiting for me to come home.

            People talk about having a come-to-Jesus moment. That weekend retreat was mine.

            I knew that I’d never be that frightened little girl ever again. That my life would turn out okay if only I was patient and let God direct my path.

            This is the story of my faith formation.

            How I went from being a child in awe of the material things of a church: the windows, the silence, the altar. How I discovered the pure joy of celebration. How it changed me forever.