Chapter 1: Born Catholic

My mother was born Catholic and will die Catholic. She was born in a small village in the Philippines. Most everyone she knew was Catholic, and all her family was Catholic. Naturally, she would follow suit. After all, when it comes to matters of everlasting life, it is often important to do what everyone around you is doing. Don't bother soul searching, seeking guidance from God, and discovering the plans he really has for you on this earth. Stay Catholic. It helps to keep down the bickering amongst friends and family members.

God would want that.

Because my mother was Catholic, I too was born Catholic. For my family, being Catholic was kind of like being Filipino; it's all part of the genetics. I can't change the fact that I'm Filipino, so I can't change the fact that I'm Catholic. What's my ethnic background? I'm Catholic, with a little Filipino thrown in for good measure.

My father is part Dutch, part German. Add to the mix my Mom's Filipino (with a touch of Chinese), and you get me. I'm not a pure Filipino; does that mean I'm only part Catholic?

Who knows.

As a baby, I think I was "sprinkled on." Does that mean I was dedicated, or actually baptized? Who knows. We enter this world as sinners, so I guess it's only appropriate that I'm baptized so I can be blameless before the Lord. Of course, there is that whole thing about me having to accept Christ into my life. I see myself as a very smart baby. However, I do not think I was smart enough to make that decision while still in diapers.

I'm going to go off on a tangent. I think because I prefaced my tangent with this statement, it is now completely acceptable to do so. If it is not acceptable, that's precisely why we have word processors. In one fail swoop, you will have never known I did this tangent. However, let's just assume for the record that I have no intentions of removing this paragraph. I go off on tangents for a reason. They mean something. Okay, nuff said. Here's my tangent: Many people seem to have difficulty with the whole "babies are sinners" philosophy. I mean, aren't kids blameless before the Lord? Well let me put it to in a way my pastor explained it to me. Have you ever known a baby that arrived and said "Hey Mom, what can I do to serve you?"

I didn't think so.

Much like you, I also know that babies come out as self centered as possible. Feed me! Change me! Burp Me! Walk Me! Pick me Up! Put me Down! Feed me again! It is for this reason that we know babies are sinners. We are all rotten to the corner.

Yeah okay; thanks for sharing Roger. I'm feeling much better about myself now.

Catholic church through the eyes of a small child

My mom took us to church when we were small children, and she hated every minute of it. It wasn't church she hated; she just hated having to deal with her kids all by herself in an environment where a pin dropping sounds like a boulder falling into the Grand Canyon. By the time we started going to church, she had three small children and she was no longer married. Do you know anyone who has successfully managed to control three small children sitting in a pew at a Catholic service... all by themselves? If you have, I'd like to meet this person. My mom was not one of these people. Don't get me wrong; my mom was an excellent disciplinarian who raised her kids to be very respectful and honorable. However (and this is a big however), even well-mannered children have their moments. Ours happened to be in the church. Why is that? For me, I had a good reason: I was terrified of Mary.

Mary was the "Mother Mary statue" in the church. It always freaked me out and made me nervous. I always felt like Mary was staring at me, especially when I knew I screwed up in school, but managed to conceal it from my mom. I could hide many things from my mom, but Mary always seemed to know. Whoever made these statues did a great job of making the eyes appear to follow you as you walked past them. How do they do that? Mary knew everything. I could hid nothing from Mary.

I never really understood her role. I was supposed to pray to her, but I wasn't sure why. Something told me I need to pray to God for everything, but for some reason I had to add Mary to equation. I wasn't sure why, so I would make up stuff.

"Mary, please tell God to look after me. Tell God that I love Him. Tell God that I don't understand why I can't pray to Him directly. Sorry about pushing Billy on the playground and chipping his two front teeth on the monkey bars. Oh, and I wish I had a bike. Amen."

Like I said, I never understood Mary.

Something I did understand was sugar. After church service, we got to have doughnuts. I'm sure there were plenty of other things to eat, but I distinctly remember the doughnuts. The reason why I remember this is because we never got doughnuts in our house. A woman raising three kids on a State employee's salary did not warrant doughnuts on any day except Sunday, when they were free at the church.

Church was also hard to sit through because the Catholic service was confusing. I think it would be safe to assume that most people reading this have had some form of "Catholicism" in their life. I say that because nearly everyone knows that a service involves standing, kneeling, sitting, praying, singing hymns, honoring the book, chanting, memorizing responses... the list goes on and on. I think this is where I first learned that humming during these responses almost made it sound like you knew what was going on. It almost sounded like I was saying what I supposed to have memorized. It sounded that way to me. I'm sure to everyone else, they heard the humming. As for me, I always thought I pulled the wool over their eyes.

It was the Catholic church where I was first introduced to hymnals. Why, oh why were these ever invented? I never could understand why the hymnals had to be on sheet music. How many people in the church were actually using the sheet music? I'm guessing no one. The hymnals normally had non-words in them, like heav'nly. I never understood how to sing that word. The words were never sang at a steady pace either. Sometimes the word was said very fast and other times it carried on for a what seemed like four normal words. Ever got caught moving to the next word before it's time? Tell me that's not embarassing. Plus, each hymnal was normally four to six stanzas long, across two pages. Occassionally, these two pages involved turning the page. I would normally get screwed up after the first stanza. Finding my place on the middle stanzas was never easy for me. I would constantly find myself singing the wrong line. I always loved it when we didn't have to sing every line, but it was almost always a double-edged sword. The person leading the singing would tell us that we aren't singing the whole hymnal, just verses 2 and 5.

2 and 5? Why not 1 and 6? I can do 1 and 6, but 2 and 5? Don't think so. Don't get me wrong; I was always elated to discover that we had less of the hymn to sing. I just wish it could have been the parts I wanted to sing. Like "Amen" for example. Stand up, "Amen," sit down.

Perfect.

I also seem to recall that hymnals included a chorus that was sung during every line. It was single spaced on the sheet music. That also screwed me up. Why can't they just make everything the same, and get rid of the sheet music? I wonder if they kept sheet music in the hymnals because the organist had a chronic problem of forgetting her hymnal, so they instituted sheet music in all the hymnals. After all, without the organist, what's that hymnal really going to sound like?

"Terribly sorry Father O'Malley, but I seem to have left my sheet music at home. Is it okay if I sit in the pews for this service?"

"Not a problem, Sister Mary. We reprinted all the hymnals with sheet music. Your forgetfullness will never be a problem again. Now get up there an tickle them ivories..."

In the church I went to, it seemed like there was a contest to see how many different hymnals could be sung in one service. I was always horrible at finding these hymnals, so I would plan ahead. I would locate as many hymnal as I could mark with five fingers, and then stick my fingers into each section to hold the page. My hymnal went everywhere with me, whether I was sitting, kneeling, standing... whatever. If my mom ever caught me, she would tell me to put the book away, and I would begrudgingly abide. Of course, the next time we sang a hymn, I would be flipping pages while people were finishing the first verse.

Oh great, I get to start at line 2. Oh, and look! This hymn has a chorus.

Eventually, you're supposed to adapt to the sheet music. I never did. I still haven't to this day. Maybe I'll take piano lessons and learn all about it. Might help me to understand when to say a word normally versus carrying a note for the equivalent of four normal words. Even then, I'll understand the notes, but will still fail to sing the right lines.

Eventually, my mom decided that taking three children to church every Sunday, although quite honorable, was too much work for her to handle. I don't blame her. Heck, I have a hard enough time sitting with myself now in church. I can't imagine what I was like as a toddler. This decision resulted in us no longer going to church. Like I said, I don't blame her.

However, I'll sure miss those doughnuts.

It is sad that my first memories of church life involved the agony of misunderstanding, counteracted by the shear joy and anticipation of a sugar high. It's amazing what kids will put up with for the promise of a doughnut.

Our church life was short-lived. That was all set to change. Before long, my mom would gain the support of a close friend who also happened to be a consistent church goer. He wasn't Catholic, but my mom was willing to forego that character flaw. After all, he was willing to pick up me and my siblings while my mom stayed at home. It is here that we were introduced to our Grandpa Mills. It was also here that I was introduced to a new Christian religion; one I couldn't spell.

We were about to become Presbyterians.