As I mentioned in my first post, I am a child of God. I literally can hear the eye rolls as I type that, but it is true. Without going into the many reasons that this is a huge part of my self and identity, I can tell you that my relationship with the Catholic church, which I was raised in and until recently was able to turn a blind eye to everything I didn’t agree with, has been challenged, especially because the church I was raised in has become a political machine. So much for let Caeser’s be Caeser’s.

The recent support of Donald Trump and ban of abortion and general hatred and devaluation of women (of which I am one) and unending pedophilia and hypocrisy and I could literally go on and on and on and on have, in recent months, made me turn from the Catholic church almost completely. My challenge is doing this while not turning from God. 

In the past, I’ve had a strong spiritual life outside of church, but even that has been whittled away at recently. I’ve been mad at God. I still may be mad at God. Not just for the concerns I flirted with telling you about in the previous paragraph, but with the obstacles that exist for my eldest son, who has ADHD and anxiety and is suicidal. He did well enough in high school overcoming all of these challenges to get a scholarship to a great school in a field he was excited about and promptly nose-dived after moving to college. Literally everything is harder for him than others. And despite all of my optimism and coaching with him, I’m going to say it: It’s not fair. 

I’m sure if I keep writing this blog, I will get into this more, but regardless, this weekend, I began to feel something that I realized I hadn’t felt in a long time: Hope. I did go back to church, but to the old-lady Saturday mass where there were no children to remind me of how my life used to be with small kids and little joys, and where the priest knows if he goes too long, he will be inundated with old people who are mad because he kept them from dinner. This is perfect for me. The sermon was inoffensive. There were no kids. It was very quiet. I had communion … the first time since December, which has been a long drought for me. It was a good experience. I felt peace. I felt hope.

Later this weekend, I realized I haven’t put any wreaths on my front door since Jack’s terrible college experience. I think I’ve been in hiding. Hunkered down against all enemies. Protecting my sons at all costs. At the cost of me. Working. Crying. Taking Lexipro. Sometimes two instead of one. Drinking more wine than I should. Getting by. Getting through each day to fall asleep (thank you, wine) and wake up to get through the next one. For them. In spite of them. But I think there’s hope. I felt it this weekend.