Dear God, It's Me, Phillip

When I was nine my sister taught me how to make a cross out of a palm. I attempted to follow her lead step by step, but repeatedly failed. Masses around Easter were always the worst, and my legs would ache as I attempted to occupy my mind with meaningless activities. We always sat on the left side of the church about seven or eight rows back. On the other side of my sister stood my brother whose atheist beliefs began to fill his mind probably around the same time he realized he liked boys. To his left was my single aunt whom I admired greatly and always defended when she was yelled at by others. My mother, a devout Catholic, stood next to me gripping my wrist so hard I always thought she mistook it for the pew. She did this, I believe, because she saw the most promise in me to keep up with our faith and wanted me to pay attention. At the end of the row was my grandma who held a prayer book in her right hand and a tissue to wipe her tears in her left hand. My father, an Upper West Side Jew, opted to stay home. 

Up at the altar the priest, who had baptized me and who would later confirm me, towered over the congregation alongside two altar servers. Their long white robes and distinct hand-carved crosses caught my eye. The ceilings stretched higher than most houses in the area, and the walls contained massive stained glass windows along the pews. Jesus and I stood eye to eye. I had learned about his sacrifices and how I, a fourth grader, should be thanking him daily. His crown of thorns and his bloodied, nailed palms and feet scared me. If this was his sacrifice, what would be mine? Before I knew what the birds and the bees were, I found the whole Virgin Mary thing utterly confusing. My mom, simply being afraid to change my view on the world and not ready to let me grow up, allowed me to believe that everyone was like the Virgin Mary; however, Mary was more special because God picked her. I would stare at the Virgin Mary with my head tilted and my mouth slightly ajar wondering if God hadn’t reached his long overbearing hands over to my mom and chosen her, who had? I knew I wasn’t Jesus because my dad wore baggy blue jeans and ugly polo shirts instead of long white robes and beat-up sandals. My dad was Jewish and God was…well what exactly was He? My mind wandered to the depths of hell and back, scared that I too would end up like Jesus. Luckily, I had the year 2010 and my grandmother’s prayers on my side. 

My grandma always has been the one to tell if I needed some extra luck on a test or an upcoming event. Her time in between breakfast and Days of Our Lives is devoted to unnecessary scrubbing and saying the rosary. I imagine she sits in the dark rubbing her coarse, fissure plagued fingers alongside the smooth black rosary beads Nonno gave her. When sitting on her almost 45-year-old bed frame, one can hear the soft tapping of her beads strung across the corner mixed in with wood creaks. For my communion I received my very own pair of rosary beads, which now sit collecting dust in the same drawer that holds my condoms and old birthday cards. Every now and then I sit on the edge of my bed attempting to harness the same power I believe my grandma might have over God. I’m never sure if I am in need of some secret code that she’s hiding that will give me the power to deliver to Him directly my list of needs or if his giant-like face and long beard will just appear in my room.

Around the time my brother came out to the family I, too, was questioning something. How would I support a church that doesn’t support my own blood? At this point I could feel my faith slipping out of my hands and the smell of incense becoming a distant memory. I loved not only my brother, but also my church. I thought long and hard about what really kept pulling me back to my church. It could have been the closeted and married choir singer that my siblings and I made fun of, or the way the communion wafer would get stuck on the roof of my tongue that made me feel closer to Him. Odd, I know, but this was what I thought of when someone asked me what does faith mean to you? It meant early Sunday mornings and long homilies, but it also meant a place to go after death. I knew that people who told me I had to be a perfect Catholic to go to heaven were lying because my mom told me so. Scared and confused, when I was younger I would stare at my brother and sister, then go on to close my eyes and pray that we would remain together after we pass on. “Heaven is whatever you can dream up,” my mother told me sparking my fourth-grade imagination. Too young to fully understand why my dad didn’t think he was going to heaven, I began to pray for him too. 

Hi God, It’s me, Phillip. I know I rarely go to church, but it would be really great if you could promise me that we all will be in heaven together. Thanks. Also, tell Nonno I say hi. 

It was like I had God on speed dial and I loved it. Eventually I grew out of being scared about heaven and as a result lost my contact with God. He must love the persistency of those who contact him every day, I told myself, and therefore must love my grandma. To be honest, I’m not really sure what I expected from God and what I continue to expect from him. I’ve been told that he loves me just as much as the other person, but I’ve also been told he hates my brother and the entire LGBT population.

My mom has been a Religious Education (CCD) teacher for almost fifteen years, so my family’s status within the congregation has always been elevated. Going to CCD meant memorizing the Our Father, the Hail Mary, the Glory Be and countless other prayers whose rules I hated. In classes before holidays our names would be randomly selected and placed on a list telling us the order of when we would go to confession. While walking down the low-lit hallway my mind scavenged for my mistakes. We would receive a list beforehand, almost like a menu, containing possible sins to confess. Did you go to church on Sunday? Did you lie to your parents? Did you steal a cookie? Did you curse? The answers were always the same. By the end of my CCD career my priest must have thought I was a cookie addict who loved lying to his parents, missing church and cursing. I always found it funny that two Hail Mary’s and an Our Father would cure my fake cookie stealing addiction. While the penance part of confession became easier, sitting in an enclosed dark cell with a priest on the other side continued to scare me. Does He need to know everything I do all the time and will my priest tell Him? I trusted my priest like a family member and still do. As a recovering alcoholic, he of all people was able to show me that God truly does forgive. 

I began talking to God again around the same time everyone around me started to die. The comforting scent of my pillow was a more desirable place for a conversation than a dirtied leather pew seven or eight rows back that hosted the stench of the entire geriatric population. What I got from a simple cry for help was more than I did from boring Passover dinners from my dad’s side of the family. With each death I assured myself that I would go back to church yet never made my way. I began to wonder what more needed to happen for me to want to come back. I admired friends’ parents who went to Bible study and friends who wrote Bible verses on their wrist. All I had to show for my faith was Nonno’s tarnished gold chain hidden underneath my shirt and an ashed forehead once a year in February. 

At this point in my life God’s track record is pretty horrible. I continue to stare out of my car window or at my ceiling fan going in circles waiting for His, what I would imagine are, large dark eyes to appear and assure me everything will be okay. Eventually I close my eyes and dream of that same perfect world I ask for, only waking up to the same problems. And so I continue waiting for the moment I “wake up” and come back to the Catholic church willingly. I’m afraid that once my grandma dies no one will pray for me and that everything will begin to fall apart. Every now and then I can feel my mother’s harsh grip on my wrist trying to drag me back to her faith. We both know that I’m her last hope and it scares her to think about how her kids don't go to church anymore. And so I continue to wait for Him to give me a sign that everything will be okay as I start to dust off my rosary beads and pray.