I was raised Catholic. It is in my blood. My great great great grandfather Peter DeRome was studying to become a priest in Montreal, Canada sometime in the 1850's. He became ill and fell in love with his nurse, Margaret LaChance and married her in 1855. I have past relatives who help establish Holy Cross Church in Saginaw, Mi. I even had a relative, Ruth Pelon (1st cousin 3 times removed), who became a Dominican Nun as Sister Ursuline for the 84 years in Grand Rapids, Mi. She past away when she was 101 years old. My mother was once disciplined by her mother for saying the Act of Contrition wrong. The school was teaching a new way of saying it and her mother was very upset by the fact they changed it. During Lent we were forbidden to eat meat of Friday and we had to give something up. During Advent we lit the Advent wreath - 3 pink candles and 1 purple candle...or was it the other way around. I don't remember.
Act of Contrition
O my God,
I am heartily sorry for
having offended Thee,
and I detest all my sins,
because I dread the loss of heaven,
and the pains of hell;
but most of all because
they offend Thee, my God,
Who are all good and
deserving of all my love.
I firmly resolve,
with the help of Thy grace,
to confess my sins,
to do penance,
and to amend my life.
Amen.
I am no longer a practicing Catholic. I have been baptized, made my First Communion, and received the Sacrament of Reconciliation. I attended a Catholic school from Kindergarten up to 6th grade then again in 9th and part of my 10th grade year. It wasn't until my 7th or 8th grade year did I start slipping away from the Catholic church. God sent me a message loud and clear.
At the time I couldn't quite put my finger on why I started to slide away from the church. For me something wasn't sitting right. I began to question the reasons we do certain rituals and said the same prayers over and over. I felt like a robot regurgitating what teachers and priests told us to say. To me it felt hollow. I don't think I ever opened up a Bible until my 9th grade year and that was more of a history lesson rather than the meaning behind it. We had Bibles at the house but it was something you didn't need to read. The teachers told us the stories we needed to learn. That was all there was to it. I had no one to turn to to ask why we do certain things. Everyone I knew was Catholic. Why do we have to say so many Hail Mary's and Our Father's to be forgiven? What if I had nothing to tell the priest during confession? I was a child. Am I supposed to do wrong things so I could tell the priest something? What if I lied about my confession just so I had one? Would that be wrong? The endless thoughts started to suffocate me.
That is when I started to dabble in the occult. It fascinated me. I was learning about the lines on my palms, how many children were in my future, how many times I would get married. I would even ask my friends if they had a hope line because not everyone had one. I would ask the stars in the night sky for special favors in my life. When they were granted I felt like the stars were making it happen. Objects began to have spirits to them. The four basic elements Earth, Wind, Fire and Water was all that I needed. I had control of what happened. Not God, not the church, and not my family. I remember going to the library and checking out books and learning about different signs, chants and symbols and how those signs can give me joy, love, fertility, beauty, wits, etc. It gave me a false peace. How foolish I was.
One day it all changed. I was sitting alone in my room reading some occult books with several candles placed around me. It was dark but the candles illuminated enough so I could read. I wanted to feel that power, control, in me. On the other side of the room came a loud BANG! It jolted me upright. I looked over and my crucifix fell off my wall. This crucifix, that I received on my First Communion six years prior had been hanging snuggly on my wall ever since. I was not jumping around or making any vibrations to cause it to fall. It just fell. An awful chill ran up my spine when I realized what fell. I ran out of my room lightning speed. I did what any 13 year old would do when terrified. I ran to mom. She found it amusing since she wasn't liking what I was doing anyway. I couldn't go back into my room until the next day. I slept out on the couch that night. I wanted to hide, especially from God because I knew I was disobeying His word.
I had my mom go with me into my room the next day. We went over and picked the crucifix off the floor and to hang it back up on the wall. When I picked it up the arm of Jesus broke off from his body. Guilt like I never imagined swept across me. I broke Jesus' arm. I caused him pain. I didn't want it back on my wall. I didn't want in my room as a reminder of what I did. Mom disposed of the cross disappointed in me I am sure.
Almost instantly I stopped dealing with the occult. It was like God giving me a stern message that what I was doing was wrong. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't a Christian overnight. My walk with the Lord during my adolescence was more like a roller coaster ride than a walk. I did plently of backsliding trying to figure out what my life had in store and what God wanted for me. To this day God is still working on me but I have come a long way.
A few years ago for my birthday my mom handed me a present. I open up the gift bag and there was my crucifix...with the arm still broken. Fear quickly came upon me. Then I took a breath. I realized I was saved and I shouldn't be afraid anymore. I looked at his arm. I was able to swing it around and make it whole again. Just like me. I was once broken but through Jesus, He has made me whole. I keep my cross on my dresser as a reminder for my broken years and now I am now complete with God in my life. My mom recently asked why I don't hang it up on my bedroom wall. I told her I don't think I could bare it if Jesus fell down again. I am not perfect but I don't want my sins to give me a wake-up call like they did when I was 13.
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