Tag Archives: Catholic

The God Sessions

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When I was a little girl, I used to say my prayers every night before I went to bed.  I was raised Catholic and so I started my prayers by making the sign of the cross, “ In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.“

I would then recite the Lord’s Prayer also known as an “Our Father” then move to a “Hail Mary.”  It was more to help me understand each word as well as to remember the prayers.  When through with those,  I would start asking God to bless my mom and dad,  brothers and sisters, and grandparents.  Then I would start going up our street mentally and ask for blessings for all my friends and their moms and dads, their brothers and sisters  (all by names) until I went down the whole block.  Then I got to my teachers at school, pets that lived in our neighborhood, special intentions for anyone I knew that was ill.  I included the children that were starving in Africa. Every night when Mom had to scrape our dinner plate into the trash she reminded us how there were kids starving in Africa and how they gladly would eat all this food that she was scraping off.  Then I always asked God to please help the person who needed it the most.    I wanted God to help that person first as I knew someone always has it worse than another.

During the day I had an abundant prayer life as well but it was a bit more quirky.  It was magical-thinking meets superstition meets magic 8-ball.

I would stand in my driveway by myself with my basketball and talk to God. In these God sessions I’d ask him important stuff as well as the very mundane.  No question was too big or too small.   Like,”are my parents going to let me sleep over Cindy’s house?” Then I’d hurl the basketball up into the net.  Mind you my little body and hands were so small I had to throw underhand.  If the ball went in the answer was yes.  If it missed that meant God was saying no.

If I was really disappointed with God’s answer, as the case sometimes was, I would say, ”let’s do this three times and 2 our of three times will decide.”  After doing  best out of three,  I would finally have acceptance at that point.

The thing was, I truly believed that God was speaking to my 8-year-old self through that basketball net. It wasn’t hocus pocus. Only now in retrospect do I feel a bit silly.  But only for a moment.  The larger part of me feels wistful and wishes I could go back in time and recapture that time again.   My faith was strong then.  I had such a deep connection to God.

I’ve had prayer life and deep faith for most of my life.  Now,  I feel so lost and don’t know how to get that back.  I’m scared.  What if I can’t? Maybe its the evil one whispering that to me?  But if I can get my prayer life back, how do I?  how?

 

 

 


1970 something

Going to my elementary school, there were about thirty kids in my class.  Hell, my graduating high school class there were 562 of us.  Recess was always fun.  Our playground was pretty nice because I lived in an affluent suburb.  It had what most nice school playgrounds in suburbia do.  Plenty of swing sets, slides, see-saws. Box-ball and hop-scotch were even painted right on the hot top itself.

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I became friends with Jimmy in second grade.  We were in Mrs. Drapeau’s class.  There was a few unforgettable things that happened that year.  Like the time that Henry Altenwen puked and peed his pants at the same time in the front of the class.  The time that Eric Frobert puked all over his reading book.  And the time that Mrs. Drapeau yelled at me in front of everyone for helping a classmate pronounce a word when they were struggling, during oral reading.  Asked me if I thought I should teach the class.  I remember feeling my face felt hot and I felt ashamed. I was only trying to help him, my heart was kind.  It’s amazing the influence that teachers can have in shaping children.

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Jimmy and I stood next to the teacher aid at recess you see.  I didn’t get much attention at home, my life there was a living hell that no one would ever find out about.  Jimmy? well he was physically sick.  I didn’t really know with what.  His shoulders were always raised up by his chin because he struggled to breathe.  So we both had different reasons for hanging out with the teacher aid at recess while all the other kids frolicked about on a beautiful sunny day.

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Me being the little chatter box, and not really grasping at age 7 that Jimmy was so sick I treated him like anyone else.  I asked him all sorts of questions since he could not run or walk around much.  Why this, why that.  He laughed at my questions.  I told a lot of stories and a lot of jokes.  I asked if he was ever going to get braces.  I asked him all kinds of crazy shit.  (I used to ask my Catholic grandmother if I was reincarnated and maybe I were a rock in another life)

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Jimmy and I went to St. Mary’s Church together as well.  So I am sure that I yapped about CCD too.  I liked our time together.  Me, Jimmy, and the teacher aide.

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Jimmy had been out from school for a few weeks and one morning I came into school and the Mrs. Drapeau said that Jimmy wouldn’t be coming back.  That he was in heaven.

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Her words hung in the air like a garrote, choking the love in my little heart.
*****
Jimmy as I would later learn had Cystic Fibrosis.  I spent a good deal of time in my teens doing the Stair Climb, an annual event during the early 1990’s at the Prudential Center in Boston to raise money for my favorite childhood friend that I lost to death.

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Every year my dad would drive me to Boston and I would get people to sponsor me for each floor that I could walk up. I always made it to the top of it’s 52 floors. Course my legs felt like rubber when I got done. I have asthma, and  sometimes it was a struggle and I would get winded.  It would occur to me as I walked, how Jimmy struggled day after day. How winded he must have been.  That I get relief with an inhaler…. that he suffocated.  I cried as I climbed.

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Since 1965, the term “65 Roses” has been used by children of all ages to describe their disease because it’s easier to pronounce.

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*****
After Jimmy’s funeral, his mother sent me a card.  It read, “Thank you for being there for my son.  You were his only friend.”  Her words gripped me and I will never forget them. To this day I never realized that all the other kids, were frolicking around, never talked to him, never stopped to get to know him.  Strange, how because of the hell I lived and the horror of what happened in my house, God brought Jimmy and I together.
*****
2 weeks ago, I received a text from my mom which made me ecstatic! It read, “there is a new treatment for Cystic Fibrosis!”  So I ran over and googled it. Sure enough, there is.  It is a brand new FDA approved drug called  “Kalydeco.”

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It reminded me of Jimmy and I smiled, then cried.  Some 35 years later, the love for my friend still lives in my heart.

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~miss you Jimmy~ xoxox
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Stop with the macramé

Grelotredstamina

I live in a GLBT nexus here in the Pioneer Valley and I love the diversity. 🏳️‍🌈

Public same sex kissing and afffection is an abundant eye candy, you don’t find most places.

If it wasn’t for my repressive Catholic upbringing I may have even been bisexual, by now.

I love freedom of expression and I embrace diversity.

That said, one thing I hate is when your freedom of expression interferes with my freedom to breathe.

You granola-earthy-crunchy-pot-smokin-bitches deciding to make an art project and braid your armpit hair into some sort of macramé thing, needs to stop.

Can you not smell yourself?

I mean when you have a colony of circus fleas taking up residence on you, there’s something very wrong.

Get acquainted with a razor and cut that bush back.

And while you’re at it, get a bar of soap and bathe, ’cause ya smell, and it’s not good.

I’m not sure if it’s your diet of tofu and garlic.  Are you trying to ward off vampires? ’cause girl your warding off everyone around you.  Hell it’s causing a gag reflex when I even sit near you.   Honestly, one would have to be in such a dope induced haze, not to be close to you and not notice the smell.

And it’s not just the garlic, that smell….its intermingled with sweat , sex , and a pot cloud that hasn’t been washed off in weeks.

The patchouli oil you wear does it no justice.  It only adds a dirt smell into the mix.  It can’t cover the buds you’ve been smokin’ and the smegma in yer panties.

Remember.  Soap.  It’s does the body good.

Rant over.


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