Does God care?

Recently, one of my better chums put this question to me: "What does God think of people using His name for, or in, all sorts of crazy acronyms?" Maybe you're familiar with them:

WWJD: What Would Jesus Do

God: Good Orderly Direction

Frog: Fully Rely on God

Ego: Edging God Out

The list is endless.

Personally, I think God couldn't give a shit! See, if I were to believe in a specific deity, let's say . . . Jeeeeeesus, my deity would be more concerned with the journey than the road signs. If I had a Jesus, my Jesus would be more like the Buddy Christ, who wants to be my friend and understand my quirks. I don't think my Jesus would hunt down my ass and force feed me some crap doctrine. Which is why I love that 'Jesus Knocking' pic I posted a couple weeks ago, my Jesus is soooo not going to hunt me down and kill me. My Jesus is going to let me do whatever I want, love whomever I please, practice whatever doctrine I wish, and be loving enough to allow me the privilege of suffering the consequences of every thought I think, word I write, action I take.

While I may not always like what I do, I must understand that every mistake, every foible is not a "sin" in the traditional or mainstream sense of the word, but rather, an opportunity. If memory serves me, I believe the word "sin" comes from a Greek word that means "to miss the mark." That is so much more palatable than that hellfire, brimstone, damnation bullshit that I heard growing up. Hell, the catholic programmers even categorized sin into venial (minor goofs) and mortal (the major crap that say, hmmm, hundreds of priests committed).

For me, and this is only for me, I believe it's my humanness that is at the very core of my spiritual dilemma. I have no doubt that I was created imperfectly and yet I have this crazy drive, this insane idea, that perfection is attainable. That I can somehow have the perfect family, the perfect home, the perfect body, perfect peace, perfect understanding, perfect acceptance, perfect EVERYTHING! Wacky, huh?

So, at the very least, I'm perfectly imperfect. Despite my intentions to be loving and kind to all, I regularly, often throughout the day, fall short of this ideal, and that sucks because I hate making the same mistakes over and over and over again. But I do.

However, if I can look at my mistakes not for how I fucked up, again, but rather what I could do differently in the future, I know that I will progress closer to that perfect acceptance and perfect peace that I hope awaits me at the end of this physical journey.

So does it matter if I butcher God's name, toss it around, use it in vain or in prayer? Like any person I know, we usually prefer the positive stuff, but can muster some minimal tolerance for the not-so-positive. And if a God created this world of ours and everything in it, I'm sure He or She is more tolerant and loving than your average bear. So, my hunch is He or She's more concerned with what actions we choose rather than the words we use.

Peace Out, Homeys!

Matthew 5 & 6: The sermon begins

The entirety of Matthew 5 focuses on Jesus' Sermon on the Mount. If anyone has read Emmett Fox, he has a beautiful book by the same title, explaining this sermon in a much more useful way, a way in which I can truly take to heart what I'm sure is a great message. It's just in the bible, I have to be honest, I was a little turned off by this chapter.

Since attempting to adopt a more spiritually-focused lifestyle some years ago, I've come to the belief that I must remain true to my soul, my gut. And if I believe firmly about something, there will probably be people who oppose my view. I believe I'm to let bygones be bygones. As long as I am not harming another, that mantra should work.

However, I read here in the Sermon that if I am at opposition with another person, I need to go make things right. Well guess what! I am not going to back down from my spiritual beliefs, nor do I expect someone with differing spiritual beliefs to come over to my team. So where's that leave us?

And how about the people who simply don't like us? Am I to run around begging people to like me? From what little I know of Jesus, he didn't do that. From what I know (and this could be my own delusional thinking), he was a 'love-me-or-leave-me' kinda guy. He certainly has never struck me as some ass kisser, chasing down followers. Or killing them for not following, as this hilarious rendition suggests.

And in Chapter 6, the 'plains clothes' approach to spirituality is something I hope to get better at. Humility is not a bad thing, but I do believe in the old adage "when you think you're being humble, you're not." Which puts me in conflict over this blog, if we're to pray in private and give privately and suffer privately, does my blogging negate this teaching? Am I doing this for public affirmation? Ah hell, I must admit, there IS some ego involved here! Admission made, let's move on.

Raised catholic, I had to learn the Lord's Prayer in the 2nd grade because of first communion. And like the Hail Mary, Glory Be, and Act of Contrition, it was a bunch of memorized stuff that I could regurgitate on cue. But in Fox's "Sermon on the Mount," I was given a deeper understanding of this beautiful prayer and have taken the words to mean something to me individually.

But the whole forgive or else, business? I see the intent, and for me, I must try to forgive, but I also know others who have things they're not yet ready to let go of. Does that mean God's all stony and condemning? I don't think so. Personally, I think it's the grace and the love and the peace that's comes from the stillness within our beings that allows for forgiveness to come forth. And until we have the courage to find that being, I believe the spiritual collective (seen AND unseen) carry us along, preparing us for that moment.

As hokey as it sounds, I believe when I can have a view, a perception rooted in love, my individual ability to be of service comes forth. But when my brokenness has me in a strangle-hold and I look at the world with hate or anger or fear, I fall into darkness, just as the 23rd verse states.

And as for Matt 6:25-34, this is total Zen! Or is Zen total bible? Reading these verses strengthens my faith that so many spiritual texts are saying the same thing. That when I worry or fret or doubt or fear, all I must do is grow quiet and look around at nature and see how every care is tended. This reaffirms my conviction that I needn't cling to one set of ideals, that if I can remain open and rooted in love, in light, I will continue to learn.

Wowsers!!!

I'm angry and I need me some Gabrielle

Ok, so I've been hermitting a bit. Just takin' some time off. I feel bad, like I may have mislead people into thinking I'm "all edge and angst, all the time." When really, I'm not. At least not all the time. I'm so not cool, I'm really just a sporadic bitcher. And I feel like doing a little of that today.

So as I cracked open the b..b...bible today to get back at my chapter-a-day read, I got really rankled by the 5th Chapter of Matthew. As I read, I kept repeating to myself "Goldilocks and the 3 Bears," "Goldilocks and the 3 Bears" because that's the approach I'm trying to maintain toward this hugely followed piece of . . . literature. Don't worry, not going into it, just setting the tone.

Anyway, I abandon my hovel a little icked, mildly ewed, a touch pissy over this Jesus Christ bullshit and head for coffee with friends. And the topic of conversation is "a power greater than yourself." Great. And then someone read about one person, having found said power, was stripped of everything of value: love, money, property, even his kids. Fuck, that stuff scares the shit outta me!

So I shared my beliefs/opinions about said fear and that I will probably always be somewhat of an agnostic because to be gnostic would be to have complete knowledge and I'm not ignorant enough to believe that's possible. Anyway, a few nervy people tossed at me a nugget or two of their "Yeah, Jesus!" Christian bullshit. As if I honestly give a shit whether they attend church and carry some fake fucking cross on Good Friday!

I need me some angel Gabrielle, because if Gabrielle wants to roller blade, Gabrielle roller blades!

Matthew 2-4: A big, bad baby shower

So at the end of Chapter 1, I read the Holy Spirit impregnates Mary with the baby Jesus. Instantly I thought of the end of "Dogma" when Alan Rickman's 'Metatron' places his palm on the abdomen of Linda Fiorentino's 'Bethany Sloane.' I like that image, it gives me a whole new feel for the virgin birth thing. Anyway, we all know Joseph stays with Mary because he, too, is visited by an angel. They wed, Mary has the baby in Bethlehem (no manger business in this Gospel) and all is well.

And I don't doubt that these people truly heeded the words, warnings, orders from angels, because angels are sumpin' scary! Look at Alan Rickman, if he told me to jump off a bridge because some invisible gargoyle was runnin' at me, and that a giant, heavenly catcher's mitt would keep me safe, I'd jump 'cause he's scary. Especially when he angeled himself into Snape!

Anyway, back to scripture: all's cool 'til Herod hears prophecy-filling news about said birth from the wise men. Herod liked being king and wasn't feelin' the whole abdication thing. In fact, he behaved quite weaselly when he tried to gain the babe's location out of the three kings under the guise of wanting to deliver his own baby shower . . . of poison darts and machetes.

But Herod didn't count on those crazy angels ushering the holy family out of Israel and into Egypt via dreams and visions. Unfortunately, the angels didn't help out all the other sorry sons left back in Israel. As part of Herod's big baby shower, he ordered all male children under 2 be killed! Once Herod died, the angels speak again and the family is lead to Nazareth in Galilee.

With Chapter 3 comes John the Baptist and while I was initially ruffled by his whole "repent ye sinners!" message, I remembered I was reading the bible as a work of literature. That in mind, I was able to see the "Prove by the way you live that you have repented" message as a denouncer of all those crazy neo-con fucks who think that if they can quote the bible and prove membership of some crap church that they have the right to judge others while they, themselves steal from their own churches, or cheat on their families, or harm little boys, or evade spiritual law in myriad ways.

In Chapter 4, I found the whole 40 days, 40 nights thing. Honestly, I always thought Jesus' time in the desert (though in this bible it read "wilderness") was the time before Easter, like he fasted for 40 days and nights and then feasted! I know it doesn't make sense. (Explained perfectly by comic Jim Gaffigan, "I haven't read the bible. I'm catholic and we don't have to.")

Anyway, Satan was waiting for him, which I really have a problem believing. I'm thinking "Satan" was more his ego or his thinking, because one's bound to get pretty loopy and hallucinogenic going without food for 40 days, but I'll play along.

So apparently Satan tried all sorts of teasing and tempting, but Jesus was a strong dude and stuck to his fast. And the fast and all that hallucinating must have brought about spiritual clarity because following this period, Jesus began preaching. At which point the fisherman left their nets, the blind began to see, the cripple, to walk. Groovy.

Matthew 1: Spitzer in the B.C.?

So, as recommended, I dove into the New Testament and read Matthew 1, which runs through the genealogy of the would-be J.C. I'm reading, nothing much hitting me, starting to yawn, when what jumps out at me, but the following footnote: "Judah fathered Perez with his daughter-in-law Tamar, thinking she was a prostitute (see Genesis 38); Salmon married Rehab, a former prostitute in Jericho (see Joshua 6); and David had an adulterous affair with Uriah's wife, Bathsheba (see 2 Samuel 11).

This was my first, of what I'm sure will be many, 'what the fuck?!' moments. And how ironic that I'm reading this on the exact day that our dear, oh-so-arrogant-and-righteous Eliott Spitzer's 'Client #9' status is busted out for all the world to see. Could this be the first spiritual 'coincidence' reading this text will lend? Me think not. But back to Matt.

Of all 3 questionable unions, it was Judah that struck me hardest so I thumbed to Genesis 38 and discovered that Judah's got 3 sons, the first, Er, married Tamar, but God thought him "wicked" and killed him. Apparently, Jewish law (I'm guessing) required Judah's second son, Onan, to marry the widow Tamar and produce an heir.

Well, Onan was a bit miffed and did not want to sire an heir who would not be his, so he put into practice the long-tried birth control method of withdrawal, which pissed off God. I'm not sure whether it was the spilled semen that was so offensive or the selfish act of denying his dead brother an heir, but in any case, God offed him.

This left the third son, Shelah, who was not yet old enough to marry, so Judah sent Tamar back to her parents under the guise of waiting until Shelah was old enough to wed. However, Judah had no intention of Shelah marrying Tamar because Judah thought Tamar was the source of God's wrath and he didn't want to lose his last living son.

So Tamar dutifully returned to her father's home where she remained for many years. In that span of time, Judah's wife died. Following a period of mourning, he and a buddy traveled to watch the shearing of Judah's sheep and word of this reached Tamar.

Now it doesn't say anything specifically about her mood at this time, but it does indicate Tamar was ticked with her father-in-law because Shelah had reached marrying age awhile ago and Judah had not arranged for them to marry. So what does she do? Seduce him.

She changes out of her widow clothes and dons a veil and takes up a post at the entrance of a village through which Judah will pass. Judah noticed her, and since her face was covered, thought she was a prostitute. He propositions her, unaware she's his daughter-in-law, and they both agreed on a payment of a young goat (nice). To insure this payment, Tamar asks for his "identification seal and its cord and the walking stick you are carrying." Horny Judah hands it over and gets him some borderline incestual lovin' and Tamar gets pregnant.

She returns to her dad's, puts her widow clothes back on, and none are the wiser, insuring Judah cannot make good on the goat payment or recover his effects. Three months later, Tamar's pregnancy is noticed and she's set to be burned to death by Judah's order.

To save herself, she produces the effects proving Judah the father and he replied, "She is more righteous than I am, because I didn't arrange for her to marry my son Shelah." This was the only tryst between father and daughter.

By no real planning, I'm also reading "The Year of Living Biblically," by A.J. Jacobs. It's very cheeky and, oddly enough, enlightening. His version of Judah and Tamar differs from mine, likely because I'm a woman and he's a dude. He sees her actions as "ethically murky" and "illicit, deceit-filled." I, on the other hand, see that it was Judah who was the tool (in more ways than one) and he failed to uphold Jewish responsibility for Tamar. Forget the fact that Er was wicked and Onan was born way too early to learn via Monty Python that "every sperm is sacred." God waxed these boys not because of Tamar but because they were total wads. And she simply went to any lengths to straighten out Judah.

So given that prostitution is apparently ok if you're the customer, I can't help but wonder if Judah, the rich widower that he apparently was, paved the way for Client #9? Unlike the virginal Mr. Cruise in "Risky Business," Judah kind of played this thing like a pro. You go, Tamar!

Read the Bible? WTF?!

Last night, while perusing the People Reading blog, I happened upon the photo of some crazy "Knowing God" book (I can't remember the exact title). I nearly scrolled past it until I read the comments beneath said pic. Apparently some guy in San Fran is reading it so that he can know more about all faiths and religions. And he's not a christian! I can stomach that! Which is why I decided to let any would-be readers in on my latest endeavor. . . the bible. AAAAAHHHH!!!!!!!!!!

I know, shocking and possibly disappointing, which is why I'm keeping it off this blog spot and started a new one just for that, An Agnostic's Bible Reed. So I will speak of it no more, here. Only to say that thus far, reading it like I would, say . . . hmmm . . . "Hansel & Gretel" or "Goldilocks & the Three Bears," there's some fucked up shit in there!

On the first day . . .

For years I have had people I love encourage me to read the b..b...b...bible. I have been vehemently opposed. Call it self-protection, call it blissful ignorance, call it a case of ostrich mania, I don't give a crap, I just wasn't interested. I think what I really started to cling to was the not knowing. My thinking was along the lines of, "If I don't know what it says, that crazy white man-God can't judge me." Or, "If all those neo-con, right-wing fundamentalists are right, then I'm fucked and I'd rather not know it!"

But I'll admit, there's always been a curiosity, some kind of yearning to know more. But I hesitate to say it was to connect with my christian self. I don't call myself a christian. Just as I don't call myself a meat eater, an Irish American, a recovering catholic, a writer, a closet-lover of Joaquin Phoenix, etc. I may be ALL of these labels, but I hesitate to stick any of them to myself. Sure there's a few labels I can't escape from: wife, mother, employee, alkie, Iowan, dumbass, etc. etc. But christian? Nope. There's too much other spiritual shit out there for me to keep to just one.

So, for many of the last few years, I've grown increasingly more interested in learning about other faiths and am trying, in my feeble attempts, to learn more. But I think it was a few weeks ago, when I first started The Litterbox and happened upon verses 10-12 in the 51st Psalm, that my mind opened that final bit. I loved the message of it and found it comforting, not off-putting:

Create in me a clean heart, O God,

and put a new and right spirit within me.

Do not cast me away from your presence,

and do not take your holy spirit from me.

Restore to me the joy of your salvation,

and sustain in me a willing spirit.

Now I've got a few b..b...b...bibles in my possession, none of which have I cracked. (Any self-respecting catholic, recovering from that scarring or not, will tell you, "We don't read the bible because we don't have to!") But I had a close friend recommend the Life Recovery Bible to give me a starting point. And to start with the Gospels. Now others have disagreed, stating I should jump right into the King James and at the beginning with Genesis. Whatever, I'll get there if I'm meant to. For now, I'm taking the lead from those I trust with my very life. Cheerio!

Trashing the Host

Otherwise known as, "The day I dumped Jesus in the garbage and wound up on the hit list."

I'd say I was about 14 or so. Young catholic that I was, I always hated going to communion. Not because I didn't believe in magic or enjoy the after paste of those little hosts, but because of my own neurosis. Self-centered ego maniac that I am, I tend to believe everything's about Jenny. And this is not something new, it's probably been this way since God had my father hug my mother in that oh-so-special way. But it's not like I was or am a Paris Hilton (though, admittedly, I can be somewhat, just a smidgen, of a white cunt). But I digress, my Hiltonism is more the other extreme. Often as a child, not so much as an adult, I thought everybody was looking at me, judging me, seeing the inner workings of my soul and thinking, "What a butt fuck!"

So at age 14, when most girls (I can't speak for the dudes) aren't all that self-assured to begin with, I would DREAD communion time. A time when, row by row, you'd stand and stumble you way toward the aisle, past the knees and over the feet of the 3 different groups of people left sitting: the hell-bound uncatholics, the catholics who ate 30 seconds before mass, and the "fallen" catholics stuck doing hard time in the pews, denied the Christ because of some unforgivable act like DIVORCE.

During this death march, (yes, death march, 'cause if we're believing in the body and blood than we might as well call a spade a spade since we're gonna eat us some good J.C.), most penitent catholics are probably praying, thanking the Lord for their bounty and Jesus for dying for their sins, etc., etc. Not me. Nope, I was sweatin' whether or not people could see my panty lines, or whether the back of my hair looked smushed, or if anyone could see the runner in my panty hose that some sinful wanker back in the pew just snagged.

So on this particular Sunday, I plowed up the aisle dressed in pink pumps, nude panty hose, pink skirt and white shirt with some pilgrim-like collar (only the Lord our God knows why these details have stuck with me 20+ years later). As my turn approached, louder roared my weekly internal dialogue of "Mouth or hand? Mouth or hand? Mouth or hand?" See, if I let the priest put the host in my mouth, I don't have to worry about the sidestep pause before the altar, I can just bust it back to my seat. But if I let the priest do this, I must open my mouth and, ever so slightly, stick out my tongue. And how scary to stick your tongue out in front of a judgemental congregation of righteous catholics?

Especially my tongue. I wouldn't say my tongue is repulsive or yucko like the tongue of that poor, ailing triceratops in the first "Jurassic Park," mine has no scales to peel off or gunk to scrape. But rather than having a long, skinny, rather elegant tongue, mine is kinda short and stubby. Just too tongue-like for me to feel comfortable in showing to a church full of would-be tongue judgers.

On this Sunday, dressed in my pink and white, I opted for the hand. So, up I went, the altar boy stuck the little gold plate under my cupped palms, and the nasty priest placed the host in my hands. Good. No problem. Now side step right, pause before the altar while taking the host with my right hand, raising it to my mouth, almost there and AAAAAAAAAHHHH! I missed my mouth and dropped it, down my shirt. And I turned to see a classmate's jaw drop. Fuck!

Flustered, red and fumbling, I made it back to my pew and knelt, thinking of the host now stuck somewhere between my teen bosoms and belly button. My brain reeled. "What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?" I command the host to remain in my shirt. I worry. I fret. I sweat. "What if I stand and it slides past my waist band and falls out, onto the floor, between my feet?" Would on-lookers think I'd drop-birthed a host? My internal curse monger starts bitching about church being so full, and why the fuck we had to come to a Sunday morning mass when we were traditionally part of the lazy jeans wearing Saturday night crew? "Why, Father, have you forsaken me?!"

So I stammered and mumbled through the rest of the mass. "Shit! A closing hymn?! For fuck's sake! When's this going to end?!" And then it did, allowing me to hit the restroom. Finding it empty, I reached down into my shirt and pulled out the offending piece of Christ. Now, this is the exact moment when the sinnin' takes place. I'm alone in this restroom, no one's around to watch me take it or trash it. I paused, still feeling embarrassed and scorned . . . and I tossed it. I threw GOD into the trash can! I even looked at it, the tiny, pathetic little host laying feebly among wadded up brown paper towels in the garbage can.

I've done some sorry ass things in my life, but this is certainly one act for which I will burn in hell. Man, I feel yucky just remembering it. Like I kicked a kitten. Oh shit, I think I just heard a gun cock. Yup, Jesus is knockin'.

7 years? No friggin' way!

I sit here in amazement. SEVEN YEARS!!! How the hell did that happen? One morning I wake up, bushy-tongued and shame-filled, dodging my own reflection in the bathroom mirror, and the next . . . well, shit! I may still awaken bushy-tongued, but the shame is gone and the only dodging in the bathroom I do these days is of the scale.

It was seven years ago today that I dragged my tail outta bed, trying so hard not to think about the shit I'd pulled the night before. I tried distracting myself with a bike ride, and only felt worse. "What the hell am I doing?!" I'd try to crank it out a little faster, trying to escape that fucking dog on my ass.

The night (and early morning) before, would mark the last time I boozed it up. No big deal to most, but to me? MONKEY MUFFINS!!! At the time, I didn't understand what was happening. My husband and I had been invited to a meet-and-greet at a local doctor's house for the new hospital administrator. Not the kinda place you show up to in jeans and a 'If we all had a bong, we could all get along' t-shirt.

Also, not the kind of event at which to get shit-faced. And I had no intention of doing so, but by the second or third drink, I was double-fisting to ensure adequate supply. And bellying up to the Baby Grand to entertain with my renditions of "Danny Boy" and Stevie Wonder's "Isn't She Lovely". (Why oh why, couldn't that have been part of the blackout?)

Unfortunately, the evening plummeted further as we--the hospital administrator and his wife, I and my husband--were the last to leave the meet-and-greet, only to exit straight to the bar. As was so much the case when I drank, I got very social and very personal and very inappropriate. It was at this point when I found myself gripped by some deep, primal urge to tell said administrator and spouse that one of the doctors on his staff gives wonderfully educational pelvic exams. I clearly remember reporting this with a straight face and much conviction, explaining that the doctor would note where one ovary was located and then the other, and so on. (Having never actually written about this, it's only now that I'm truly struck by how abso-fucking-insane I was to think another human being would want to hear EXACTLY where my ovaries are located!!!)

Oh! You think that's bad? Oh no. Ovary discussion wasn't getting me nearly the attention I craved, so I whipped out the party trick to beat all party tricks: Milk and Cookies! See, the saddest thing in this is that while I was whoopin' it up like a crazed wad, my 10-month-old daughter was with a sitter. And her little life had not been the easiest up to that point. And I was still lactating. Lactating. Producing milk . . . from my body. Providing me with the greatest little party trick east of Vegas. At least that's what I thought. Hell, I'd been perfecting this trick for nearly a year. So, out come the jugs and it's treats all around. Don't ask me how the night ended, the twins' bruises indicated 'not good.'

Most of my friends were a little disturbed when, a couple weeks later, I 'came out' to them and shared my decision to stop drinking. Given the distance that separated us, they were largely unaware of the mud I'd been spraying in the eyes of innocent bar flys. So it's no surprise that a few still ask if I'll ever drink again. But for me, when I think about that last night: intending to have a couple glasses of expensive Chardonnay while schlepping with a bunch of doctor-types, ending up hording the free beer and showing off my sick skills? Call me crazy, but this is one bee-ahch who does NOT need a drink. No nevah! But I'll take just for today. . .

Not another holy roller

As I sit and skip out on yet another Sunday gathering and my husband leaves with the 2 kids in tow to praise the Lord, I must admit there is a smidgen of yearning to connect with some kind of spirituality. I have many reservations about organized religion, developed and still festering from the years of cathecism I endured as the child of a catholic mother. My husband, on the other hand, lacks such indoctrination and simply goes to church to be a part of that fellowship.

Me? I just don't likey. Maybe it's that arrogance that all catholic kids are taught: only catholics go to heaven, all other faiths/religions are fucked. I don't believe this to be true, just as I don't believe Jesus was a celibate, single dude who died for our sins. But that's for another time. What I do believe is that behind our gruff, cool, kickin' exteriors lies within all of us some concept of a God. Maybe it's the essence of Mother Earth, the Buddha, Yahweh, Allah. I don't know, it's just a hunch I have. And with this hunch, I have a very strong belief that just as I don't have the right to preach to someone about the condition of their soul, NO ONE has the right to preach to me about the condition of mine.

So maybe that's why I shy away from church. Fear of hearing all that black and white, hell and heaven bullshit programming I received as a child.

My husband, on the other hand, comes from good, hell-bound, protestant stock. As his family relocated a few times, with each new town they'd move to came the church shopping spree. CHURCH SHOPPING?! That's crazy! Choosing for yourself rather than follow the herd to the closest catholic mass? That's spiritual anarchy! But one I really liked . . . especially having parted with the catholics sometime during the 3-hour freedom drive from my parent's home to college and my pseudo-freshman year (I'll leave that for another post).

So when my husband and I started our own church shopping, I felt deliciously rebellious because we'd decided to plant our roots in the area of my youth. This meant I knew a bunch of people, and they knew me. And the fact we weren't darkening the door of the local St. Joe's was noticeable and . . . awesome. I'd taken a public stand that shouted "I'm not catholic anymore!" But who am I kidding? You can take the girl outta the church, but you can't take the church outta the girl. And not everything was bad, just most of it. There are lovely prayers that I remember. The pageantry of the mass, though long, was pretty cool. And much of my family remains catholic and I love them and believe that their religion works for them and I bless them! And from time to time, I enjoy going to church with them and taking communion (not because I believe in the body and blood, but because the local priest knows I'm not a practicing catholic and it pisses him off - HA!).

I think, and this is just for me, that my catholic upbringing really kinda ruined the idea of cherishing and honoring any kind of church. My husband and I decided upon a very cool, quite liberal denomination. We've had good preachers and our current minister is a very hip, funny, bald guy from Wisconsin (and you can never go wrong with a Cheddar Head). But it's a real effort for me to go. So I generally don't. Especially since I tend to fellowship with some buddies a few times a week, trying to find my way along the path of sobriety.

Again, I don't want to turn off anyone with this 'God Talk,' but it's part of who I am. For me, I must recognize that this world is not just about Jenny, which is why I love the following verses from Psalm 51:

"Create in me a clean heart, O God,

and put a new and right spirit within me.

Do not cast me away from your presence,

and do not take your holy spirit from me.

Restore to me the joy of your salvation,

and sustain in me a willing spirit."

I wish you all peace and blessings. Try a little meditation, a little journaling, a little prayer. I haven't been doing much of these, but if I keep asking for the willingness, I have no doubt it will come.