I was a very difficult teenager. I was not "bad" at all, but I was very, impossibly, and consistently difficult. For some reason in 7th grade I got it into my tiny pubescent brain that shutting everyone and everything out was the best thing for me to do with my time. I was angry about everything, about the babysitters and being a latchkey kid, about the time I wasted in school when everything was still so easy for me to do well in. I was angry about being fat. I thought I had it all figured out and that everyone around me was insignificant and not worth my time. My goal in life was to make everyone as miserable as I was. Yes. It's true. I was a COMPLETE asshole.

However, I remember one specific experience that broke through the shell. For as long as I can remember I had been raised Catholic-like. I don't really know what to call it, but we always attended a Catholic church. As a child the messages are kind of the same throughout all Sunday Schools- Jesus loves you. You must respect and obey the Ten Commandments. And, as is the Catholic way, weigh kids down with a severe amount of guilt and an intense understanding that no matter what you do you are never worthy of God's love. I swear, guilt is to Catholicism what butter is to Julia Child. BUT my parents were never satisfied with the teachings of the Catholic Church so we were constantly church-hopping. The longest we ever stayed at a church was Saint Elizabeth Ann Seaton in Hamlin, New York. This is the church where I received my first Holy Communion, was confirmed, and was baptized. All at the same time. I still remember that the priest held my head underwater in the baptismal fountain for way too long... Anyways, that ended up not working out and my parents heard of this church in the city called Spiritus Christi. This church was excommunicated from the Catholic Church for ordaining women, accepting homosexuals, and generally loving EVERYONE without acception as Christ Himself taught. I went in skeptical and very awkward- these were the years I thought everyone was constantly looking at and judging me. But no one did judge me. Everyone smiled like they already knew me. I still sat there with arms crossed over my chest and looking miserable- until the choir sang. The gospel choir...I wish I had a video to show you, but here are all of these suburban looking people, most of them white, just SINGING. If you want to experience a wall of human sound, this choir is it. I felt it with them, I felt them filling the room with God's presence. I clapped and I smiled. And for once I didn't care what I looked like, I just needed to move. I needed to be a part of what was happening.

After Communion, a short man with dread locks came to the front of the choir and sang "Stand" by Donnie McClurkin. It wasn't 2 lines in before I was covered with goosebumps. By the end I was crying. I have never seen someone to this day surrender themselves up like that. He didn't care if he missed notes because he wasn't singing for any of us. He was singing for God. I tear up just thinking about it.

I don't know what the point of this post is. I miss my church a lot, I miss sharing my Sunday mornings with Jonathan, the man who sings for no one but God. I miss...well I don't know. I feel like after this point what I get becomes too personal so I'm going to switch to my journal. Rachmaninoff's Ave Maria...youtube it when you get the chance...

-Mariah

I am grateful for those goosebump God moments.