I’ve been on a little spiritual sabbatical of late.  Actually, my spirituality is  not so much on sabbatical as are the methods that I use to express it.  I was born and raised Roman Catholic - I think I already told you that I went to Catholic grade school, high school, college and grad school.  I left “The Church” in my early twenties, only to return in my early thirties when my mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer.  I made the standard bargain with God - “Save my mom and I’ll come back.”  I came back.  My mom died.  But by that point is was totally immersed in Catholicism once again and had a really good run for many years.  When I was incarcerated and my addiction was made very public, however, very few of my Catholic friends (actually very fer of ANY of my friends) made any attempt to contact me, which was through the U.S. Postal Service.

When I got out of jail, I spent many years taste-testing a plethora of religious organizations, trying to find a perfect fit.  I have “worshiped” in Christian fundamentalists churches.  I spent a year or two practicing Unitarian Universalism, and for the past few years I have been involved in a very liberal, very welcoming, very casual arm of The United Church of Christ, all the while dabbling here and there in other denominations.  I also practice Vipassana meditation, which has nothing to do with religion, but is indispensable to my spiritual wholeness, no matter what building I visit on Sunday mornings.

But for the past 5 months or so, I haven’t been going anywhere on Sunday mornings, unless it’s a 10:00 12 step meeting.  For the first few months I wasn’t particularly bothered by the fact that I was no longer “attending” a church, but lately there has been a growing discomfort with the fact that I am not getting together “in community” to celebrate God’s goodness.

Yesterday I went to mass with my sponsor.  I have been to a couple of masses, mostly for funerals, but this Sunday was the first Sunday in Advent - the beginning of the new church year - a time for hope, fulfillment and grace. I attended the same church where I had been a parishioner for 15 years - before my fall from grace.  I didn’t see my sponsor, so I sat alone  up in the front right of the church.  My favorite spot.

As the light shone through the stained glass windows and I sang the familiar responses and  took part in the constant movement of sitting, standing and kneeling, I felt like I had put on my favorite old, worn sweater once again.  You know, the one that you swear you’ll get rid of one day, but the one that you always wear when you’re at home, because no other piece of clothing feels as good, as “right” as that old sweater.  It’s the sweater that you wore when you rocked your baby to sleep, the sweater that kept you warm when your husband left, the sweater that you wrap around your doggies when they’re on the couch with you, and the sweater that you don’t wash very often, so you can still smell all those memories.

When mass was over, I was approached by many old friends, given lots of hugs, smiles, and heard phrases like, “It’s so good to see you again,” or “I didn’t know what happened to you.  I thought you moved out of town. Welcome home.”

I could feel myself reaching for my old sweater.

Till Next Time -

Your Humble Road Warrior