(3 Weeks)
Growing up Catholic was, as I’ve mentioned before, pretty okay. My school was fun, a place where I built long-term relationships with people I still call friends today. Our parish provided a community where I felt protected and nourished. Youth group provided a social life before the days of house parties or when bars became open to us. I stayed connected into my late 20s.
By the mid-90s, I was married and no longer lived close enough to my old parish to be a regular for Sunday Mass. It didn’t matter because with so many of the people I knew – my parents included – having moved away, I didn’t feel the same sense of community. I was also married to someone who’s experience with the Catholic Church was vastly different than mine.
My faith itself didn’t waiver while I questioned my relationship to the institution. There were news stories of course about the atrocities perpetrated by clergy then covered up by the church hierarchy. Breaking news about the Magdalene Laundries in Ireland, also hit close to home. Since college, I also began to question the Catholic Church’s stance on women’s choices for their own reproductive health and beliefs around homosexuality. Now as an adult I became more aware that the actions of people within my church community weren’t “Christ-like” at all.
During Lent of 1994, I dutifully attended a new church that was walking distance from the apartment my first husband and I shared in Hackensack. I went every Sunday. Chris promised me he’d attend Easter Sunday mass with me. On that Easter Sunday, after witnessing a politically charged, completely inappropriate homily for an Easter Sunday, I consciously made the decision to stop going to church.
Catholic guilt consumed me for a few years. It wasn’t something I ever shared with my parents. I also honestly, just felt lost for a while. My relationship with “God” wasn’t just something I could shut the door on after 30 years. But it was like I didn’t feel in being true to myself, I could be part of that anymore. Would you still belong to a club if you weren’t willing to follow the rules?
I felt guilty…until I started running. Suddenly I had something to do on Sunday mornings. It was a time of quiet reflection and meditation. I’d run past the Catholic Church feeling the thump of my heartbeat and air making the journey through my nose, lungs, and back out my mouth. I listened to the rhythm of my feet hitting the pavement. I felt gratitude for this temple – my God-given body – that was doing wonderous things, and I remembered being taught in Catholic School that God was everywhere, not just in Church.
So, it was in spring 1996 that I joined “The First Church of the Long Run.” As I began training for my first marathon in 1997, “Sunday ‘services” became longer. Two, maybe even, three hours. I felt I was doing something very positive for my health while becoming one with my environment. The trees, the flowers, the many little animals I’ve met on my runs.
I remember one long race that was three loops around Central Park. At the start, the spring morning was cool, and a trace of snow lingered in spots. On the first lap I noticed the daffodils coming up. By the second lap the sun was higher in the sky and the temperature was climbing. I noticed the daffodils now looked like they were about to bloom. The third lap came at the heat of the day and by then the daffodils were showing off all their bright sunshine all over the landscape.
I never felt closer to God.
Please help me support Mercy Home for Boys & Girls with my 60th Birthday Fundraiser. I will be running the United Airlines NYC Half on March 16th. This will be Half Marathon #54. My goal is to reach Half Marathon #60 before the end of the year. Please help me stay motivated, and make sure the children of Mercy Home are provided the care they need. To learn more about Mercy Home and my why, please visit my fundraising page. Thank you.
