A Wicked Basket Case With a Touch of Satan And Lemon Zest
From as far back as I can remember, I have always told myself, “Forgetting this memory would be extremely impossible because it is the beginning of the rest of my life.” I imagine myself, an artist, a pessimist, a nostalgic and sarcastic dead-pan amateur writer writing that quote down and hiding that folded piece of paper, and over and over again finding it as if for the first time and trying to remember what that memory was. Though I can say, it didn’t fail me to recollect a record of my so-called life. The folded paper I found was my days in church and my discovery of God.
When and where I realized the genuine concept of God is unknown to all who could conceive my frame of mind, I alone never bothered to let myself know. At a very young age, since I was a newborn, I have been acquainted with God and his home, the church. I smiled when I saw pictures of me as a newborn, happy in my white dress, now resembling wedding dress layers and layers of promise and sanctity. I smiled because I had no idea what was going on. Everyone was so happy to bear witness that I was becoming a child of God, but no one knew how long it would last. As I grew older, ages 2 through 5, my church attendance was very high. Sunday after Sunday, I became more and more unaware and paid no attention to what the man in the dress was saying. Pristine and colorless, barely touching the floor, if you didn’t look down at his feet, you would almost think he was a ghost. His voice would bellow loudly and bounce all over God’s house, and there would be no one who didn’t listen to his every word, but that never did stop me from falling sound asleep.
My frequent attendance never resulted in lasting imprinted memory. Every visit, the first thing I would see painted on the ceiling is a man sitting in a chair, with his head surrounded by a gold aura and his hand, palm forward, and index and middle finger making a peace sign. Every visit, my face would light up as if this was how heaven was going to look.
My younger years played with that image of that being just a man. A man with long brown hair, healthy but gaunt, his features resembled a man who worried extensively about something unknown to me, his eyes a piercing sharply warm blue that just said; I love you. During service, I would stare at him sometimes the entire time, but if I weren’t distracted by him or the smell of burning palm tree leaves, my eyes would wander to the rest of the ceiling. The artwork captured colors I had never seen before. Streams of gold and backdrop of marble would entangle in the arms of infant angels—the stained glass with freeze-framed images of Jesus’ miracles and his recruited saints in peril. Though I didn’t know any of these saints, I still felt some child-like sympathy, I never felt their pain, but I still cried for them.
Sooner than later, I came to realize that he was the son of God or God himself; I still do not know. Developing my attentive skills in my catholic grade schooling, I had no choice but to listen to what the man in the dress had to say. His preachings of God being merciful, loving, and faithful and his son Jesus who died for my sins, who died because “they know not what they do.” As a nine-year-old, this translated into Jesus being this guy who was very special. He had a gift of healing and the ability for people to like him, even worship him. This in itself puzzled me, but don’t get me started on him rising from the dead. It was instant admiration and instant fear at the same time. The 3rd through 8th grade became a roller coaster of redundancy. The mass seemed to be a drama sitcom that showed the same episode about a man who was killed and brought vengeance to all who didn’t follow his commands. I joked openly with my friends, “we don’t even need to go to Mass” I’d giggle, whispering, “we can just do it ourselves.” Then I’d mock the man in the dress, “This is the body of Christ; he shed his body for you and all so that your sins may be forgiven, take this in memory of me.”
Attending a Catholic high school didn’t change my image of the church. Mass would be less and less critical in contrast to school work. In high school, it allowed me to meet different sects of religion, none of them I could understand, thus rejecting them. Winding down as a young adult, I haven’t been to my church in a long time. I haven’t seen my idea of heaven; I haven’t smelled the incense of burning palms. I haven’t heard what the man in the dress had to say. When the church was mentioned, I instantly became offended because it led to the insult of my faith. I believe in what I was programmed to think and nothing else. My childhood naivety still embraces the concept, but it died within me a long time ago. Now my adult mind has nothing but unanswered questions that I no longer want them to be answered. Forever he will be my father, my brother, my friend who never left my side.
From as far back as I can remember, I have always told myself, “Forgetting this memory would be extremely impossible because it is the beginning of the rest of my life.” For now, that quote will float through my mind until I decide to unfold another piece of paper, finding another memory, as if for the first time.