I raised as a Catholic. Considering that my dad was baptized as a baby, it was almost predetermined that I’d also be Catholic. My dad seldom mentioned faith or sharing his history of attending church. He shared that he had received the sacraments of Communion and Confirmation, but as far as I knew, it wasn’t that important to him.

            Perhaps sharing a bit of his past might clarify why faith wasn’t a major part of his life. His father died when my dad was around five years of age. His mother remarried shortly after, and then proceeded to give birth to a goodly number of half-siblings. My dad was jealous of his siblings, and so regularly tormented them, as well as intentionally aggravated his mom. She’d get so angry with him that she’d chase him around the house, holding a wooden spoon about her head, threatening to spank him.

            My dad relished in making life miserable for anyone in the house. If a sibling was on the phone, he would disconnect the call, without warning, just so he could call someone. Not Christian-like behavior, that’s for sure. He stole food from their plates, dirtied their clothing, and when he wanted to go somewhere, would either take the only car or ride away on a bike belonging to one of them.

            After he graduated from high school, his mom kicked him out of the house. At that time, my dad worked at a bowling alley, setting pins. He’d stand in the back, waiting for a player to knock down whatever pins the ball happened to hit. As soon as the ball had cleared the lane, my jumped over the wall, cleared away the downed pins, then jumped 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 in the Navy.

            I don’t believe he attended church as an adult.

He met my mom at a USO dance in Dayton, Ohio, and convinced her to bring him home. She lived in a small apartment with an older sister. The two women struggled to make ends meet on meager salaries. According to my mother, they never had a lot of food in cupboards or refrigerator.

My dad was a narcissist, only caring about himself. Whenever he was in my mother’s apartment, he’d rummage through cabinets until he found something to eat. He’d then demand that my mother prepare it, even though it was often the only food my mom and her sister had.

            Supposedly my mom loved him. He was handsome, with a rakish smile. He was buff, after years in the military. He walked with a confident air and exuded power. Perhaps that’s what she admired in him, for she’d grown up poor, he family traveling from job to job, often living in a farmer’s barn, alongside farm animals.

What my mom had going for her were her looks. She was petite, slim and gorgeous. She said she’s weighed about ninety pounds when they met. She was also naïve, having never dated until that USO dance.

They married in May, in a hastily arranged ceremony in a local Protestant church. Eight months later my brother was born.

            I came along a year and a half later, then my sister was born when I was seven.

            When it was time for my brother to begin school, my parents wanted him to attend the Catholic elementary school in Dayton, Ohio. A requirement of enrollment was that the family had to be practicing Catholics.

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

            As a child, then even into my teens, I loved the atmosphere of the church. The Mass was in Latin, a language I didn’t understand, except for the prayers my parents made me memorize. As I graduated from first to fourth grades, I learned more and more Latin, until I knew what the priest was saying and what the words meant.

I loved the pomp, the processionals, the colorful garb the priests wore. I loved the ceremony, which the Catholic Church still relies on today.

But, instead of paying attention to the service, I’d stare at the stained-glass windows, reciting in my head all the stories depicted in colorful glass.

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

            Such stories enthralled me, for they carried me away to some other, happier place, somewhere very different from my own living life of hell.

            Imagine growing up in a supposedly Catholic home, but 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. I was often commanded to squeeze into an old high chair, situated in front of the stove, until I’d deigned to eat the raw pancakes my dad had made.

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 that she could inflict behind our bedroom door. She’d leave her side a mess, then tell our mom that I had rumpled her blankets or dumped her clothes on the floor. She’d whine whenever I was listening to my radio, run out of the room, complain to our mom, which resulted in my radio being taken away.

She wore corrective shoes with metal toes and insoles. She’d kick me so hard my legs were covered in bruises, then tell my mom that I was the one doing the kicking. She’d steal my clothes, pour something on them to make stains, which then angered my mom for my wasteful and inconsiderate behavior.

My siblings made my life miserable.

            Back to being Catholic, well, we attend Mass regularly, except when it snowed or after we moved to California, it poured. When in Ohio, the drive would have been dangerous as back then, snowplows weren’t as common, and so the combination of ice and snow created could have led to a deadly accident.

On those days, 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, my last one at the Catholic school, our class was ushered into the church, for talks about what service meant. Priests, monks, and brothers attempted to recruit the boys, while nuns spoke of service to the poor, or teaching, or worshipping behind the walls of a closed convent. 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. Imagine not being forced to talk out loud, instead listening to the call of birds and the whisper of the wind. Imagine living in harmony with other women who sought out that life. I loved prayer, and spending night and day in devotion to God and the saints soundly heavenly.

            My parents refused to allow me to join, 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 either marriage or childbirth.

            Despite my young age, I had dated even though 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 kissing and even 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. Once I turned eighteen, I could join on my own. With tears in my eyes, I prayed for that day.

However, the opportunity never arose, because as soon as my freshman year of high school ended, we sold the house and drove across country, eventually settling in South San Francisco, California.

            I have no idea if there was a Catholic high school in the area, so I attended the nearby public school. It was a short walk around the block. I hated that as well. It was too big, the kids either ignored me or teased me as I was an odd duck, and the classes boring.

Because I was no longer enrolled in a Catholic School, my parents insisted I take classes in a CCD program, the Confraternity of Christian Doctrine, which was supposed to reinforce the Catholic doctrine.

            My teacher was a parent with no teaching experience or training. The students disobeyed her. They talked when they should be quiet, refused to answer when called upon, chewed gum despite being told to throw it out, and refused to stay seated. It was a waste of my time.

            I begged to stay home, but my mom insisted until the end of that school year, my sophomore year. At this time, I was somewhat jaded about faith. Catholicism had lost meaning for me ever since I wasn’t permitted to join the convent.

            The beatings at home continued. 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. I hoped he’d help me escape. I never did, though, as I was too afraid of what punishment would befall me if I did such a thing, for I knew the priest would tell my parents all my complaints.

            To add to my disillusionment, 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 with 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. The stained-glass windows were enthralling.

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 attended services in Pacifica (where the priest preached fire and brimstone), Half Moon Bay, Daly City, and Burlingame. The priests seemed indifferent to our presence and not one parishioner approached in greeting.

Eventually my dad found a tiny church behind a strip mall, in San Bruno. The Mass lasted only thirty minutes, pleasing my dad. He declared that the church would be our only church.

It wasn’t pretty. It felt like an extension of the strip mall out on the El Camino Real. The inside was plain. While it had the requisite statues of Jesus, Jospeh, and Mary, the windows were ordinary glass. No colorful scenes depicting stories from the Bible. No organ music swelling to a crescendo. In fact, no music at all.

Around this time the Pope had declared that services were to be held in the people’s vernacular, so every word spoken, either by the priest or the congregation, was in English.

That part I liked.

Unfortunately, nothing about my attendance there provided any respite, offered no consolation, and didn’t fill my soul with awe or a sense of calm. It was a waste of thirty minutes of my life.

            My senior year of high school had me looking forward to college. My goal was to get far, far away.

            I was accepted at several colleges. My first choice was Ohio State, where I could live with my Granda Reiske, my dad’s mom. I’d help around the house in exchange for room and board. My parents refused to let me go.

My next was San Francisco State. I could live at home, to my dismay, as it wasn’t too far of a bus ride away. But they were afraid of San Francisco, so said no, once again.

The only college they would let me attend was the University of Southern California, only because my brother had been accepted there as well. He was to be my guardian. If only they had known how that would play out!

When school began, I intentionally did not attend Mass.

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

            One day, as I was walking back to my dorm room, I heard beautiful music coming from a small, one-story building. I stood there, listening, to folk songs I’d heard on the radio. I studied the sign out front, which declared it the Neumann Center. I didn’t know what purpose it served, but the 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 the 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, praised Him and spoke of the many ways He filled their souls.

            To my amazement, 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, 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.

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

            I knew that I’d never be alone as God was walking by my side. I understood that my life would turn out okay, if only I was patient and let God direct my path.

            Little did I know that God’s work was amazing. He spoke to me in quiet moments. He calmed me, when I’d had to return home after graduation. He gave me strength to handle the torments inflicted on me until I’d earning enough money to get my own apartment.

            And once I was free, He helped me find solace, even when my parents ridiculed me, called me names, attempted to destroy my marriage and told me I was a horrible mother.

            If I hadn’t found the Neumann Center, I don’t know when God would have found me. It’s because of that chance encounter that my faith returned.

            This is the story of 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.