I don’t like wasting time.
That’s what going to church felt like to me when I was a child. “Who would willingly waste an hour of their time for this every Sunday?” This is what I always thought as a little girl, legs dangling off the impossibly-hard pews of St. Theresa’s Parish.
The sound of holy water flowing in and out near the entrance would fill my ears and nearly lull me to sleep as the priest gave his sermon. Every time, I itched to leap out of my mother’s arms and into the street, for it was far better than the burning feeling of guilt I felt listening to the words I was supposed to wholeheartedly believe in.
I didn’t like that feeling one bit.
But like most young Filipinas, I suppressed my doubt and continued to serve my duty to God, attending church obediently and being confirmed in my faith. I even played Mother Mary in the Nativity and participated in Simbang Gabi, one of the biggest celebrations in Filipino Catholicism. In many ways, I was set up for a life of faith.
That is, until I left home for UCSB.
Taking my life by the reins, I indulged in sleepless Saturday nights and late starts on Sundays. And while it did feel strange at first – having no obligations on what is supposed to be the holiest day of the week – no longer did I have to think about reciting a “Hail Mary” or “Our Father”.
For me, that was bliss.
I look back on the months I spent away from the church and I realize what made that time so special was the fact that it was selfish. I selfishly stayed away from the church less than a mile away because I wanted to. In my mind, it was what I deserved after nearly 18 years of not having a choice to leave.
Bahala na.
A phrase said by my mother every time I disobeyed her. Spending time away from church, in her mind, was a crime deserving of corporal punishment. But what truly scarred me the most, and what still does to this day, is this short phrase she would say when she was done:
“It’s in God’s hands.” “The worst thing you can do is sin. Let’s see what God will do with you.”
I had practiced my faith as if it was a sentence, a far lighter one than the shame of being a bad daughter. What’s the harm in taking a little break from it? After all, it had been a source of mental distress for years.
And then I was invited to church one sunny spring morning.
And I knelt in pews for the first time in months in the beautifully quaint St. Mark’s University Parish. The sun beamed in colorful streaks across the tiles of the floor, illuminating the small community gathered for mass. As I looked to my friends, eyes closed in prayer and reverence, I was almost moved to tears.
I no longer denied how beautiful being Catholic truly was.
Despite the pain it caused me, that faith was an irreplaceable part of my childhood and identity. Extending hands for the Our Father, singing with the voices of strangers united in one faith, looking into the warm eyes of the priest as I received the sacrament – I realized that outside of the oppressive reach of my family, I loved being a part of this community.
The hour-long mass wasn’t a waste of time at all.
As my friends and I filed out the church after exchanging a handshake with Father, we made plans for Easter to attend again. Me from six months ago newly settled miles away from home would’ve found an excuse to not go.
I happily agreed to come again.