To my ancestors, I give thanks.

Yesterday, we rounded up the whole crew and headed to church. We hadn't been since Christmas, and both my husband and I were feeling some guilt that we had let time get away from us. I ventured out in my Sunday best with my typical trepidations and usual 'church heartburn'.

You see, I have some pretty out there religious views. Maybe they are not as bizarre as I think, but let's just say I don't sit around with many other people and discuss my views on spirituality, worship, religion, and reincarnation. Yes! I said reincarnation.

My 'church heartburn' evolves from a complex web of Catholic guilt. My mother is from a strict Roman Catholic background and my father is a Southern Baptist. From the beginning, I was born into a clash of beliefs. Please don't misunderstand. My parents are huge proponents of spiritual self actualization. My father vowed to raise his children in the Catholic faith just to be allowed to wed my mother in the church, and to this he held true. My mother also deserves accolades as she introduced us into the Catholic church, but left it up to us, once we came of a certain age, to worship as our heart saw fit.

I love the Catholic religion for it's ritual and unity. My grandmother, a woman I aspire to be like, was a faithful and devoted Catholic. My husband was a dutiful altar boy and is now a potential Knight of Columbus(the only chink in his armor being he married me.)

Alas, being a social feminist, I have a hard time coping with the patriarchal approach of the Catholic church. None of this is a big deal when I am at home praying to my deceased ancestors (like my friends the Buddhists), or directly to my God (who looks a helluva lot like the Virgin Mary in my mind's eye...you know that whole Earth Mother thingy), but when I sit in church all of my heart's comforts give me a bit of heartburn. Remember, this blog is written by the world's biggest worrier, and a mother.

Anyway, my heartburn dissolved as soon as we entered the worship space. The church was incredible. The people were diverse and welcoming. The music was inspiring. The priest was thoughtful, intelligent, well spoken, and devoted to his parish. I loved it. The entire homily was about listening to the whispers of your own heart which I immediately took as a "get out of purgatory free card" to worship as I see fit. To top it all off, both of the boys were on their best behavior. It was my idea of a small slice of heaven.

So, I spent the car ride home praying to my deceased grandparents and ancestors. I thanked them for the renewal in spirit, for the gentle reminder of the importance of family worship, and I prayed once again for them to help mend the rift between their children that has grown since their passing.

Well, miracles do happen. My overly prideful uncle had called and left a message for my mother the night before, and my stubborn mother actually returned the call promptly on Sunday evening. I am not sure what will come of the phone calls, but it is a start. This humble grand-daughter bows and give thanks to her watchful ancestors.