If you had told me in middle school that by the time I was in college, I would be a Methodist, I would have said you had a screw loose.
That, quite frankly, would have been a pretty rich comment, coming from the bizarre kid I was in fifth grade.
Having recently transferred back to the tiny parochial school I had switched out of in first grade to a local Montessori school, I was made fun of a lot and, in retrospect, I can hardly blame my classmates.
When the boys ran around plucking leaves off the bushes lining the school parking lot, I would tear off after them yelling “You shall not kill!”
Having attended both Catholic and non-faith-based schools, I can say that the religious atmosphere seemed to have a polarizing effect: you either ate it up or you got burned out. There wasn’t much middle ground.
Me, I ate it up. I was frequently cast as the Virgin Mary in any occasion that called for it.
I was chosen not only in eighth grade but also as a senior to place a crown of flowers on a statue of Mary in the annual May Crowning ceremony [which was actually much cooler and more special than I just made it sound].
I wore the scapular that my religion teacher gave out to his freshman class until it quickly got to be too much of a hassle when combined with a bra.
I made my sister’s jaw drop when I vehemently assured her that in the exceedingly rare instance that I would have sex before I got married, I would most certainly not make it an even worse sin by using protection.
I longed to be like the saints who levitated or routinely entered into deep states of meditation and had visions.
My Confirmation saint, Catherine Laboure, was lucky enough to have been visited by Mary herself, who described a medal that she wanted to have made and told her to get to work, essentially, because those who would wear it would be given special graces.
That was the only necklace I ever wore for many years.
Over break, I was confronted with the question of what, exactly, I should do with that, not to mention the many rosaries I had collected over
the years.
I could not throw them away, of course, and I eventually chose to give them away, since there was no reason for them to be holed up in my room if somebody else could use them.
It was a weird feeling, though, like I was giving away with them a part of my heritage. I realized there wasn’t any reason to eradicate all evidence or anything.
After all, that’s nearly twenty-two years’ worth of culture that I still value if not
practice anymore.
I kept the medal, because they were given to my whole sixth grade class by a favorite priest who has since passed away, but I no longer wear it.
I couldn’t bring myself to give away my grandmother’s glow-in-the-dark rosary or the first rosary I ever received back in kindergarten.
It’s funny how things change.
It can be weird and even a little sad, but embrace it, for through change comes growth and often greater happiness than you knew before.
Respond to Abigail at