Thursday, February 11, 2016

Sweating in Church

So yesterday was Ash Wednesday.

Okay, before I get started, I must explain a little about myself.
I grew up in a Catholic family.
I, even, taught religious education.
We were hoping it was going to give me some guidance.

I attend as often anymore.
It's not that, I don't believe in something bigger than me, or I think that organized religion is a crock of shit.  I just have too many questions, and growing up in the Catholic religion; asking questions was not exactly acceptable.

If I go to church now a days, it is to please my mother.  She is super religious, and if it makes her happy, I am there.
So as my parents relatively go every weekend, I go on Jesus' Birthday, Mother's day, Easter, and that's about it.
The longest services, naturally.
I have no particular interest in the priests at the church I attend, I mean they are stand up dudes but, their english is not so great, and for someone who has to watch movies with subtitles, we can see my struggles.

I didn't realize until we pulled up that, I had a hole in my shirt right over my boob exposing my red sports bra.
Yeah I am surprised I didn't catch fire when I walked in yesterday.
I like to keep it as classy as possible.

At the service, I was sitting there in my own thoughts like I normally do. I try not to sing because it's very similar to a dying cat, so I like to spare myself from as much judgement as possible.
I make eye contact with the alter boy who looks to be about 16.
I weirdly look at him because, he looks identical to the guy I have been seeing, so I try to keep my thoughts as Christ-like as possible.

After the singing, the standing, the kneeling, (sounds like a Weird Al Version of a Jack Johnson song) We get to the gospel, like I said earlier, the english...not so good.
So I try and listen as hard as possible,  they mention something about hypocrites and the synagogs, and the praying in your room.
I could relate.
When I pray,  I talk to God like he is my homie, I'm like...
Sup God, It's Kelsey again.  Thank you again for not listening to my prayers back when I wanted to marry that drug-dealer.   But I was just seeing what's up, and if like you were having a good day but I seriously need a favor..

Well we then go up for Ashes.
After this goes down, and I am back at my seat; I am in my own thoughts again.
As I am thinking there, I look up and there is this little baby, probably about 6 months old (that age could be completely off; I have no perception of age), and she is cute.
And I don't normally think babies are super cute that early, but this one was different.
She was wearing a red shirt with a heart on it, and a red Gerbera daisy in her hair.
She looked dead in my eyes, and I looked into hers.
She turned her head when her mother, who was stunning, kept walking by.
It's like she stole a part of my soul.

I swear, I do not have baby fever.  I do not want a baby right now.  I am not trying to trick some dude into getting me pregnant.
(That last one is funny...Because you's impossible...)

But, I think something takes you over, and you start recognizing things more when something is called to your attention, or if you are looking for it.
For example: A red car.  You notice more red cars if you are looking for them.

I think you get the picture.

This baby looked at me, and I looked at her, and I realized that I might never have that situation happen to me, you know carrying my midget person that has like half my DNA at church up to get ashes.
 really don't ever worry about babies in my every day life, and when I do I write about it.

I straight up ugly cried in church.

No single tears, I mean it was quiet, but I sobbed with a lot of very visible tears.  It was awful.
I couldn't stop.
So at this point I am wearing a shirt that is  too large on me with a hole in it exposing my bra, and I am sobbing.
As a whole, I looked like a needed more Jesus, then the service was offering.

I guess it could have been worse, I normally fall asleep in church, so I guess I am moving up in the world.

Pray for me.

No comments:

Post a Comment