Originally published between 2011 and 2014, this post has been updated but preserves its original publish date as content is migrated from the archives of The Flavored Word.
When I was a little girl, right after my mother turned my bed back and I brushed my teeth and changed into my princess nightgown, I used to crouch on my knees, hands clasped together, head bent, eyes closed and repeat the words to “Jesus Tender Sheppard Hear Me …” But as I got older, my bedtime ritual changed.
I went to a Catholic school from the time I was very young on through the tenth grade. My mother was Lutheran, and so by default I was too. I remember being one of the only students who had to stay in the pew while the rest of the student body received communion—because, as it was explained, my religion only believed the Eucharist represented the body of Christ where in the Catholic Church the unleavened circles of bread actually became the body of Christ. And so, I sat. And I quickly learned to feel like I was the odd one out.
When I was in high school—again, a Catholic school—I decided to go ahead and take communion. I was fourteen years old and being a part of something was the most important thing regardless of whether or not He became that piece of dry bread in my mouth or not.
When I was twenty-four, there was nothing I wanted more than to be married in a Catholic Church. I wanted the long ceremony … the candle lighting … the dedication … the ritual … and so I went through the confirmation process and “officially” earned my place in the registry of the Catholic Church which bestowed upon me the right to marry with the Pope’s blessing.
I will never forget my confession, because at the time I really couldn’t think of anything to confess … (lol) … all the same, thanks to years of Catholic schooling, I was able to repeat on cue the necessary verbiage to partake in reconciliation. And of course, I was able to recite however many Holy Mary’s and Our Father’s that were prescribed.
BUT. But now, I really need to pray and I don’t think He needs to hear anymore predetermined accolades. I think He needs to hear me … yet I don’t know where to begin. I tried to pray when I was blow drying my hair this morning … when I was walking the dog, folding the laundry … but I couldn’t remember how to begin—how to address Him. How to signal, “Hey up there … I know it’s been a while … but I need to talk … are you listening or do I need to be kneeling at my bedside?”
Cover image from Pexels’ free library.
DISCLAIMER: I’m a writer and an editor. And I try my best to make sure every post is articulate and free from errors. However, being that I edit my own work—and it’s next to impossible to properly edit your own work—I admit, occasionally there may be an error or two I miss. But doing so doesn’t make me an idiot so don’t be mean. Just smile, pat yourself on the back for finding an error and be glad you’re not the only one who makes mistakes sometimes … xoxox
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