The last time I went into a church to pray was almost 6 years ago. It was a little Catholic church tucked away off a main road, a tiny church with a tiny congregation. The doors were unlocked to the world-as I think churches should be, I think of a church as a place that should never close-and with a gentle pull I opened the two massive wooden doors with surprising silence.

It was late at night. It was a summer evening and the weather was muggy and rainy, a sheet of rain pouring down in constant succession. I didn't really know what it was that made me get into my car and drive so late at night, and when I think back I still can't remember, either. I do remember that my beloved Stars had recently won the Stanley Cup. I remember that I was long-distance dating X Partner Unit. I had been diagnosed with skin cancer and various bits gouged out of my back to remove it. I was working upwards of 80 hours a week. My family wasn't speaking to me. My adored Grandfather had just died, and Kim was alone in a white hospital bed at Baylor University, wearing the batik we'd bought in Belize and dying of leukemia.

I had fallen into one of the worst depressions of my life, second only to last winter.

I couldn't sleep. I couldn't eat. I lost masses of weight and found myself needing to scrub the kitchen floor at 3 am, to bake cookies at 4 am that I would just give away at work. I couldn't make sense of anything, I couldn't figure out what anything meant. My mind raced at hundreds of miles an hour, and a trip to the doctor put me on medication to try to sort me out. I was supposed to take two pills four times a day, but that day I had taken more than that.

A lot more than that.

And so it was that a rainy night found me in my car, driving with no purpose. Eckerd's? Did I want to stop at Eckerd's and pick up more over-the-counter sleeping tablets? Could I stop at Taco Bell, they'd be open, maybe I should eat something? Texaco'¦maybe Texaco would do. Maybe the car and I both needed fuel, maybe we both had tanks running on fumes.

Somehow I found myself pulling into the parking lot of the church, a church I had never seen before, a church I didn't even attend. I hadn't been to Catholic service in many years, a more lapsed Catholic than myself didn't exist. If I were to step into the confessional it would likely go up in flames as my overwhelming catalog of sins hit the wooden floorboards with a yellow pages thud.

I get out of my car and start walking into the church. The rain is coming down in sheets, but it didn't hurry me. There is something purifying about summer rain, something more resolute about it than fire. When I got to the church, I opened the doors, flooding my face with so much light I had to blink'¦

'¦and music.

Exalting, dizzying, pitching music filling the corners and rafters of the small church. A single man stood on the dias, a sheaf of music in his hands. He was dressed plainly in a black robe, and I immediately took him for a monk. His voice was unwavering and pure, hitting high and low notes with the melody of the church chant, a dramatic monotone sound that has a way of reaching into me and putting seeds of calm into my stomach, sweeping out the rubbish from my soul and splashing around a bit of lemon cleaner.

Like the savage beast, I was entranced by the music, by the candlelight. If God was anywhere it would be here. If God dared to be in my presence, if he dared to face me and all that had been thrown at me, it would be here. This small Catholic church with its beams of music ravaging my thoughts, cutting through them and stopping them all in their tracks'¦this was where God was.

And I had a bone to pick with him.

I reached the bowls of water at the end of the pews, and in an old habit dying hard I dipped my fingers in them and crossed myself. I made my way slowly up the aisle, noticing a few people at prayer in the wooden pews. I sat down in one of the pews and looked around, trying to understand what I was doing here, trying to figure out where God was. I saw a tiny drip of dried wax on the edge of the pew and with a short fingernail I scraped it off, easing the waxy substance under my fingernail and coating it white. A small puddle of water appears on the pew around me as my damp clothes leak out onto the pew, but I imagine a church is one of the few places where they are supposed to just be glad you're there, regardless of what you're wearing or how dry it is.

As I sat there, I could feel the medication I had taken swirling around in my brain, touching little mushroom patches of chemicals on my senses and synapses. I felt a wet patch on my face as I realized my nose was bleeding, and a shuffle through my pockets helped me find a torn-up and rain dampened tissue to use to try to stop it. I sat there, holding my nose, wondering where God was.

A movement to my right and I turn my head to see a man genuflecting and leaving an area. It was a special prayer area, a little pocket of private prayer space. Is that what you want, God? I ask. A special audience?

I stand and, still staunching my nose bleed, I make my way to the quiet area. There are only 4 pews here, facing a statue in the middle of the Virgin Mary, with rows of the lit votives-a necessity in Catholic churches-highlighting her from below. Her cheekbones were high and arched, her arms open, folds of cloth chiseled out of the marble, covering her from head to toe.

I kneeled at one of the pews, ignoring my bloody nose. My back ached a bit from the recent surgeries as I reached my hands forward in prayer stance. This was hitting bottom, an atheist in a church, a non-believing sinner amongst the resolved and pure. I understand why people need their religion...but religion didn't need me.

God? I ask. Are you here?

No answer.

Do you know what I have been through? Do you? I know I am supposed to think that you are there for me, helping me and guiding me, but you know what? I am utterly alone. That stupid saying, that ridiculous verse where I am supposed to think that I am not walking alone, that you are carrying me? Yeah. I don't think that for a minute. I am walking on my own here, and I am doing it through fire.

I wait, wondering if this is the part where God interjects, but I am met only with the lingering sound of the monk and his lilting singing.

I stopped believing in you, so I suppose it's fair to understand why you stopped believing in me, I continue. And I have made mistakes-boy have I made mistakes! But I was taught as a little, naïve girl, that you are supposed to overlook mistakes, that you are supposed to be there anyway. And you know what? I am so ready for you to stop fucking with me, God. I am done!

I stop, wondering if I shouldn't have cursed to God, then realized that I actually didn't care if it did offend.

God, I say, wiping off the still small trickle of nosebleed from my face. You have no idea. Do you know what's happened to me? You've taken away my grandfather. Now you're gunning for Kim. The world has turned against me and you've smacked my body with skin cancer-have you seen the scars? Have you? It's true I don't really care about scars, but I can do without the pity, God. I see how people look at it, and I can do without the pity.

I sit there, quietly, and as I utter the next words, the tears gush from my eyes and I sob hysterically.

I'm so tired, God. I'm so tired, I just can't take any more.

I stop my monologue then and just lean forward and sob and cry and rage into my folded hands as the simple truth hits home. I was just so utterly deep and bone-weary tired. I cry for ages, I cry until I feel my head pounding, I cry until I get those ridiculous and very-telling hiccups that show when you're all sobbed out. At some point, I feel a hand on my shoulder. It's the monk, who had finished with his singing and I hadn't even realized it.

'My dear,' he says softly. 'I am here to talk if you need it. And God is here to listen.'

I wipe my face off and stand up, facing him. 'No he's not." I say firmly. "He's not here, I've been checking.'

The monk looks startled.

'Thank you for your kind offer, Father.' I say, turning to leave and digging the car key from my soggy pocket. 'But God and I have nothing more to say to one another.'

And I leave.
And I drive home and clean the kitchen all over again, working off the medication.
And although I light candles at every church I come to in memory of those I loved, I have never prayed again, and I am sure I never will.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 07:00 AM | Comments (18) | Add Comment
Post contains 1666 words, total size 9 kb.

1 I sometimes have the feeling that people "use" churches in a wrong way. One good example is when they insist in a church wedding, and actually aren´t even catholic or something else (but the white dress and walk down the aisle is just so cool...). You reassured me tough. "Lapsed Catholic" or atheist, you help give a meaning to thoose places. A good and special meaning. Miguel.

Posted by: msd at October 13, 2004 10:47 AM (tNFQ7)

2 If nothing else, you found release there. Maybe pouring out your agony was part of what you needed to do that night to begin to heal. Maybe God listened a little more closely than you thought at the time. You certainly were offered comfort, after all, even if you weren't able to accept it. I don't think anyone who's lived any kind of even half-full life has resisted the urge to rail at God and scream at him for being such a shit sometimes. I don't know anyone who hasn't, at least--but then I try real hard to avoid the ever-cheery, ever-righteous types who think not losing a sock in the dryer is proof of God's love for them. They probably never tell God to knock off the nonsense.

Posted by: ilyka at October 13, 2004 10:53 AM (i02rj)

3 I believe that the power of prayer, or belief in an omnipotent being, is not that your prayers will be answered, and those who are ‘good’ get what they want, but rather sometimes your prayers are not answered the way you would like, but how a higher power believes they should be answered. In other words, nothing is without reason, it’s just that sometimes we don’t know the reason. More importantly, I’m a firm believer of the old expression, “that which does not destroy us, makes us stronger”. It helps with keeping your sanity sometimes, because otherwise sometimes you really would have to wonder “why me” or “what have I done to deserve this”, etc. J In the end, just look how strong you are Helen.

Posted by: Holly at October 13, 2004 01:34 PM (6Z5mA)

4 It seems like you found something in that church, even if it was a firm belief that you must do it all for yourself. The way it's written, the way I'm reading it, it seems to have been a watershed moment in bringing you peace of some kind. I went through a time when I didn't believe but I had a moment similar to yours when I realized that I strongly believe there is a god. I'm still figuring out exactly what I think god is (don't know if I ever will) but that certainty has never left, just like yours hasn't. to each her own, and whatever makes sense inside our heads and hearts is what we must believe.

Posted by: martha at October 13, 2004 01:41 PM (5HJ2h)

5 Never say never (and yet I just said it twice . The most well thought out and devout atheist I've ever known prayed and asked me to pray when his wife was ill. I pray (and I don't take that phrase or act lightly) that you will develop a deep, rich prayer life with God someday. Suffering is a hard thing. No one wants to endure it, but we often see the benefits when we come through it. The melanoma and 20+ spots of Basal Cell I've had removed got me to radically change how I viewed my family life. I drastically re-prioritized, and the long-term benefits far outweigh the short-term scare and discomfort.

Posted by: Solomon at October 13, 2004 01:42 PM (k1sTy)

6 Wow. I hope that's the piece you submitted for your writting contest..... Wow.

Posted by: gymrat at October 13, 2004 02:12 PM (nnOa7)

7 I have a couple of things to say. I don't or won't preach. I grew up with holy rollers and can't stand those kinds of people. However, I can't help but think that when you were at the pew crying and when the "Monk" came up to you that it was God's way of answering you. Maybe...just Maybe...if you would have talked to him you would have had some questions answered. Just a thought. Also, I haven't been a huge religious person but I have felt something missing. So, for the last month I've been going to RCIA aka CCD because I am converting to be Catholic. Can I just say that...it feels good to get to know God. There's a reason you wrote this post. Something sparked it. Maybe you miss him and you don't realize it.

Posted by: Tiffani at October 13, 2004 02:13 PM (xpNFK)

8 I've been there too, and I've found no better answer. There was never an answer and I don't believe anymore in a diety of that sort. You're a very strong person, and you've made it through a hell of a lot. I;m not sure there's anything else I can say.

Posted by: Onyx at October 13, 2004 04:21 PM (8g7sN)

9 Helen, I hesitate to coment on this post because I have already discussed with you my views on organised religion, and those views tend to be inflamatory to people who belive differently than I do. What compelled me to coment anyway is your amazing story, it sent chills down my spine. What others may see as someone who has lost their faith in god, I see as someone who found faith in themself. I think that is something much more awe inspiring than could ever be found in a house of worship. One thing has changed though, you will never be alone again, I know there are more than a few folks here who will back me on that.

Posted by: Dane at October 13, 2004 04:40 PM (ncyv4)

10 the correct quote is 'savage breast', actually.

Posted by: void at October 13, 2004 04:52 PM (4dWnl)

11 I've been on all sides of this issue (well, maybe not ALL). I can find something to agree with in just about everyoneÂ’s comments, but the line that hit me the most was Dane's - "...I see as someone who found faith in themself." I still pray occasionally, and I've had reason too lately, but I don't expect a divine answer. It just helps to compose your thoughts and understand your feelings (very much like writing). btw - GF calls herself a "recovering catholic" (although that may not be true since she was kicked out of confirmation class for asking too many questions).

Posted by: Clancy at October 13, 2004 04:58 PM (EGVPL)

12 I feel I must comment, although my experience is so different from everyone else here. A few years ago I realized: I know it's wrong to steal, to lie, to want what i don't have, yet I still do those things. The very one who gave me life and all good things in my life, who gave me the capacity to work for good things in my life, that very one is the one I give the finger and throw mud at and curse when I break his laws. He is coming to judge us based on those laws, and when he comes, he will find me guilty. And because he is a good judge, he will do what is right and send me where I deserve. I don't deserve special treatment, I am as bad a sinner as anyone. Breaking the law once is enough, and I've done it millions of times. It was then that I found I have no hope, no other option but to throw myself at his mercy. I didn't think he would listen given the way I'd treated him and all he gave me. Given that i thought I'd given myself life and all good things for so long, how could he look at me with anything but hatred, anger, wrath, loathing. But the day I aknowledged the truth, the day I saw my life was in his hands, the day I threw myself at his feet and admitted I could do nothing to save myself, that was when he smiled, reached out, gave me hope and forgave me for all I'd done to try to hurt him. He gave me a new life and put new desires in me. I'm no longer dead, a slave to my wicked desires. I'm alive, and I have a hope for this life and the next.

Posted by: LT at October 13, 2004 05:19 PM (jCvui)

13 One of Clint Eastwood's famous lines is, "A man's got to know his limitations." Faith in one's self only goes so far and eventually will let one down. Faith and hope in the God LT speaks of will not let one down. I understand everyone doesn't believe in that God, but I hope no one disbelieves for lack of seeking or understanding. I can't speak for LT, but feel free to send me an e-mail if you ever want to discuss the hope I have. I know you prefer not to discuss God on your blog Helen (although you pretty much invited it this time , so I won't go into great detail. But I'm very serious about anyone e-mailing me to discuss God.

Posted by: Solomon at October 13, 2004 09:55 PM (k1sTy)

14 This entry is probably one of the most beautiful things I've read in a very veyr long time. Personally I can identify with you on so many levels and my communication with god tends to be a screaming one way conversation about how he's royally fucked me over for sins I didn't know I committed. Never one for organized religion I did attend church with all of the neighbor kids to see what it was all about. Like Clancy's girlfriend - I was asked to stop coming to Awanas because I questioned God far too much. I don't think I've ever told you before how much I love your writing, Helen. Your ability to describe your surroundings and bloody noses completely blows me away.

Posted by: Michele at October 13, 2004 10:33 PM (GsIaV)

15 That was beautiful, and honest. That's all I'll say here, other than Dane is right on the money. You will never be alone again.

Posted by: Easy at October 13, 2004 11:06 PM (U89mk)

16 Your honestly is humbling...you have a voyance beyond compare. Thank you.

Posted by: Marie at October 14, 2004 12:38 AM (3Y1np)

17 Hmm...I was an atheist/agnostic for most of my life. I prayed when my daughter was in the hospital for brain surgery. Guiltily, secretly. Hoping nobody saw me, diehard scoffer that I was and felt/heard zippo in return. I also prayed when my mom got cancer. Nada. I tried again right before I left my ex, when we were both on the floor crying our eyes out with the pain of our breakup. We both prayed together that time and he was much more of a militant atheist than I was. But we tried anyway. I really got pissed off then and was totally embarrassed later that I'd been so damn weak. I had to give up all my defenses before I was ready to listen. I was too pissed off and defensive to hear anything all those other times..."You'd better be LISTENING TO ME GOD, YOU BIG ASSHOLE!" You know...that wasn't really a conducive attitude as far as being able to hear anything coming back to me. "FUCK YOU GOD!" No answer..."SEE THERE??? I told you so!!" LOL! ;-) Um...I had to break down and let myself be totally weak and defenseless before I could hear God. I had to feel I was all alone. Broken. Humbled. That I didn't care anymore, I really didn't. A quiet "Help me, I am in your hands, whatever happens." Only *then* could I finally hear God. But not before. Oh, and I still get pissed off and rail against God sometimes. Ask Dan. *Amber sits on bed, railing against life* Dan: "What does God say?" Amber: "FUCK GOD!" Dan: "Hmmm...well, then, what does God say about that?" Amber: "What is He, my SHRINK? Who cares what He says? NOT ME!" But God just kinda laughs at me affectionately when I do that. Takes the wind out of my sails rather quickly. *grins*

Posted by: Amber at October 14, 2004 01:51 AM (zQE5D)

18 Wow, Helen. Beautifully told, and horribly saddening at the same time. I haven't had a conversation with God yet. I kinda think that he and I have already talked enough, and this lifetime I'm just gonna ride it out and see how I do.

Posted by: Almost Lucid (Brad) at October 14, 2004 07:04 PM (NOiRr)

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