I can’t remember when I decided to become Catholic. I think it was that night I had too much Jameson during a Boondocks Saints movie night. Or it could be that time I was really drunk and started a word-fight with a Christian cookie-peddler outside of a campus bar. I still insist that she had it coming, being outside campus pubs peddling Jesus cookies, shukum it was!
Somehow, I had a plan. I would wander into the Catholic bookstore downtown and shly look at rosaries. The proprietor, about whom I had solid word was a friendly soul, would offer assistance. I would bat my big blue eyes and meekly explain that I’d like to know how to pray with it. A conversation would blossom, I would sell my aforementioned back story, and begin attending services. I would get baptized on April 1st and many lols would be had.
The first part of that worked like a charm. I even asked if Jesus would still be my friend if I had tattoos and divorces. I swear, I asked it just like that. This well-meaning woman earnestly answered all my questions with great sincerity that I privately, stoically brushed away, just like Momma taught me. She sure hated emotions, my Momma.
The second part was way off and much less fun, so much harder. I was actually just in time to start attending classes. Yes, convert classes. The program is called RCIA and involves three hours of my week be sacrificed to biting my tongue. I also try to make an appearance at Mass a few times a week.
There are so many rules and drills that go along with being a Catholic that lately it seems over whelming. It isn’t really though, I just ran out of coffee and enthusiasm for a little bit. I just have to show up, memorize a few things, and pretend to believe. They did give us this pop quiz the other week, though.