My parents – and their parents, and their parents’ parents – are Catholic. Not the sort of Catholic who is Catholic by name and tradition, maybe only attending mass on Christmas and Easter, but a much more committed version. Name and tradition certainly play a large role, but I can probably count on one hand the number of times we missed mass growing up. I don’t have a memory of myself or any of my four siblings ever complaining Sunday mornings; attending mass was the most consistent thing in our lives and the idea of not going never registered as an option. In many ways, this rhythm was a beautiful part of my childhood, this prioritizing of worship. I went through all the sacraments and classes, truly thirsting for God for as long as I can remember. The hard part was, my desire to know more of the gospel rarely received much response from my parents; God seemed to be confined to our church building’s walls and the short prayer we said together before meals.
I started attending RUF in college, a reformed student ministry. I loved it from the very first large group. It felt like the Holy Spirit was just waiting for me to meet this pastor, his wife, the other students, the leaders. I learned so much about Jesus those first two years of college, all while being highly involved in the Catholic church a few blocks from campus, even teaching a Sunday school class. I became a believer while Catholic and I so badly wanted to remain Catholic. There’s a lot to say about that journey but the “fall” in my story will always be defined for me by the decision to tell my parents that I was no longer going to pursue Catholicism. I was a good girl up until then – a model eldest daughter – and then suddenly, I wasn’t. I knew they would be severely disappointed when I shared – maybe even angry – but I didn’t anticipate the extent of how broken our relationship would become. The immediate month following was a very dark time in my life; the next few years were dark, too. My relationship with my parents felt permanently damaged.
That was 11 years ago. Healing happened slowly and the reality of my decision to leave Catholicism continues to impact my life in new ways with each stage of living. I’ve known the Ten Commandments my entire life, but the command to honor thy father and mother has been on my heart throughout adulthood in a way it never was while under their roof. It’s interesting that God instructs us to both honor our parents and to leave them (in regards to both marriage and following Jesus). To me, that means He knew being a daughter would be hard. Experiencing one’s parents as real, broken human beings is heartbreaking. My father said things to me that I have only been able to forgive by the impossible work of the Holy Spirit; my mother has hurt me just as badly by not saying anything at all. However, God didn’t leave me there.
Today – after seasons of anger, avoidance, awkwardness and, eventually, quiet acceptance – my relationship with my parents is richer than it’s ever been. We can talk about church without my mother crying and my dad and I can discuss theology without shaming the other person for disagreeing. I can love the Catholic church and the way I was raised without remaining a part of it. Jesus uses strong language and tells us to hate our mother and father if that’s what it takes to follow him, but by God’s grace I didn’t have to, even if they felt otherwise at the time.
Now a parent myself, the Lord continues to soften my heart towards mine and the imperfect way they received life-changing news from me. A women I met at a conference several years back – ironically themed “Write Your Story” – said this to me: “You were the first pancake; your parents just didn’t know when to flip you.”
Tell Your Story