My road to the Catholic Faith - Part One: Reverence

Den saliga. 1901-1909. Gottfrid Kallstenius

Even when I was a rambunctious child, I got high marks in reverence.  

I went to fancy, Reformed Presbyterian private school.  We memorized the Westminster Shorter Catechism.  We memorized scripture.  We wore plaid skirts and knee socks.  We were taught the proper way to spell and use grammar and speak when spoken to, and how to do math and science and how to read in Kindergarten.  We were taught how to behave like ladies and gentlemen.  Our teachers sent our grades home once every six weeks, and that report card had a section where they would mark our character and virtues we were displaying.  I never got praised for my kindness, meekness, or respecting authority.  But I always got a check plus in reverence.  Really interesting for a kid who with authority issues.  I just knew there was something about Jesus and God, something about sitting still in chapel, listening and not talking and something about the space at the front of the church that was special.  Not to be trifled with. I had no idea what it was, but I knew I had to behave a certain way.  

I used to run and play while my mom was at orchestra rehearsals when I was about 10 or 11.  Our old Baptist church had a huge auditorium, where I was baptized.  (I recently revisited there to pick up proof of my baptism, and the auditorium had been transformed into a wedding chapel or something of the like.  The baptistry taken out and theatre lights installed.  Much cooler).  But back then we were very un-cool, and the church was decorated with mid-1970s decor, including these side walls that hid people if they walked along the side to their seats, as to not be distracting.  I used to play back there during orchestra practice.  I would pretend we were in an old Catholic church.  Not that I had ever been in one.  I just knew from movies and pictures (maybe the Sound of Music?) that Catholic churches had special rooms and areas where reverent things happened, hidden things...special things.  Holy things.  Things different than everyday life.  I wanted this, deep inside my little child heart.  I just didn't know what it was. 

I used to make a nest under the Christmas tree, in a space only gotten to by crawling under our grand piano.  I would save my favorite angel statues and set them up.  Sometimes I'd take baby Jesus from the manger and set him with the angels.  I would bring the light strands down from the tree and just stare at them for hours, bathed in soft blue light.  It was magical.  It was reverent. 

I think every child believes in magic, until the world squashes that precious hope.  Every child believes in Santa Claus, that his toys come alive when he isn't watching, and in Narnia.  We just forget how to get there.  We just get too jaded by this terribly harsh world.

Little Amy knew that Narnia and magic and Jesus were in the world, somehow, somewhere...out of reach.  And they were real.  And they were hidden and precious.  And they required reverence.

I had no trouble at church as a little girl.  The hymns echoed and everyone sang.  The families sat together.  They dressed in suits and dresses.  I especially loved my big pink 1980s frilly dresses.  When I was lucky, there would be a bell or two sewn into the petticoat so that I slightly jingled when I swished about, to my delight.  Church was a grand occasion.  But then in the 90s, something changed.  I thought it was just my "youth group".  I had never been allowed to wear jeans to church before.  But everyone did it, and I did it a few times.  The music changed.  The hymns slipped away from us, as did the lovely grey headed senior faithful which had always graced the pews, to my delight.  I have always loved old people, and they seemed to grow sadder and older with each passing year and each song that used drums instead of pipe organ.  By the time my youth choir was replaced with "crew" who danced to Janet Jackson at church on a Sunday Night, I told my mom I was done. 

We left the church where my mom was on staff as pianist.  This was only the first step in a long journey...a long, tear soaked, angry, bewildering journey toward the arms of the Catholic Church.  But my Lord called me years before, as a young one.  He let the echo of Eden not die from my heart.  I didn't know why I felt so out of place in the rock band concert that became my Baptist church.  But he did.  He left me with reverence.  At times a terribly heavy weight, but an undeniable force which even my Presbyterian kindergarten teacher saw in me past my foolish obstinate childhood behavior. 

More in this series:
Part 2- A Rich Heritage