I grew up mainly going to Catholic Church, but my mom would also take us where the Holy Spirit was manifesting. She had her finger on the pulse. There was a lively preacher who would say, “I claim a duplicator!” In one name it claim it church. We mostly attended Holy Family Catholic Church where my dad’s booming voice would be heard in their yearly haunted house. At St Timothy’s Episcopal where the Gerard’s were holy and had a loving community. And at St. Viator’s, where we attended the elementary and middle school. I made many lifelong friends at all three churches over the years.

The Catholic Church first entered our lives when my grandma was a little girl. She broke her arm playing and had to go to the hospital for a time. The doctor would carry her on his shoulders around the ward. She felt like a celebrity! Her parents were Presbyterian. It was a Catholic hospital that she went to. When they cleared all of her hospital debts, that got my great grandparent’s attention. They were quick converts. Over the years, my grandma developed a relationship with both Jesus and her priests. It was when my grandpa died that she relied on her priest friends a lot more in the running of her household. My grandpa handled all of the family’s bills and finances, and my grandma had no clue. She attended mass daily and even counted the collection plate on Monday mornings. I most remember my grandma’s reading her bible daily, with lots of highlighting and bookmarks in it. Her kindness when she let me move to Manhattan to live with her and my sister was so great.

I didn’t find out until later that she was throwing away flyers from a new church plant called, “Mosaic” in lower Manhattan held in a public school. I had been searching Manhattan for a pool that I could swim in. At the time, I had gotten bursitis in my hips and walking was becoming more difficult. I needed water. As I was walking along Chambers Street towards the new pool, I was handed a flyer for Mosaic Church. I immediately got excited! The missionaries were my age and super nice. I went the next day, which was Sunday. The worship was a little band, kind of like a Christian rock band. Worship was amazing. Then a young thirty something preacher got up and started talking about God’s love and I was all about it. Yes, it was a departure from me being the cantor at St. James, which was also my mom’s church growing up. I was fifty plus years younger than anyone else. At Mosaic, there were tons of people my age! I got plugged into a small group and a bible study and I was on my way!

I regularly received Holy communion in between singing the offertory and communion songs. Fr. C skipped over me one Sunday. He refused to give me communion. I was devastated. It sent me into a major depression. I just wanted to praise the Lord! I didn’t realize my attendance at a different denomination was a big deal. Well it was to my priest and my grandma. He was trying to excommunicate me in retrospect. I was volunteering as a greeter at the new church, and my grandma told me that if I had extra time, I should go back to teaching catechism to the kids at St. James. I sought counseling for my broken and confused heart, I was scared. Scared to speak scared to eat. I don’t know if it was my imagination but right before my first therapy session, my grandma made me stew with zero salt or flavorings. It was bland and tasteless. My grandma was an excellent cook with dinner ready like clockwork- on the table at 6:00pm sharp. So I knew I was in trouble. I think what broke my heart most was the denial of love from both of these people who I loved and admired. Were they that threatened over me attending a different church? I remember wanting to cuddle my grandma in her bed but feeling her walls up. If hell is the absence of love, then I was in it. Plus I was in constant pain. My hips would lock up while I was walking down the street and I’d have to stop and pretend I was a tourist looking up at buildings. This was during the time of flip phones with no internet so I tried my best to look busy. After the pill kicked in, I was able to walk again. So between my health issues and my broken heart, I ended up in the hospital.

In the mental ward hallway bathroom, there was a huge, sharp piece of metal sticking out of one of the bathroom stall doors. I reported it to the office staff right away and they were frankly surprised that I didn’t take the opportunity to open a vein. I knew I’d never do that, and after I reported it, a few staff members asked me why I was even on a psych hold, because I was obviously not suicidal. Just really sad. And I was also confused as to why where I worshipped was becoming more important than who I worshipped? I was released shortly after the hold was lifted with everyone, even my fellow patients wondering why i was in there. I’m usually never sad, so for my friends and family to see me so distraught was worrisome. I made friends and prayed over people in there, so maybe that’s why God let me go. Before I was discharged there was an older man sitting in a chair near the very loud door leading to the stairs. It was the only nearby exit except for the elevator down the hall. He looked at me but also through me. He asked me if I’d ever been hypnotized. In fact, I had listened to a self hypnotic tape over and over again when getting over the break up of my fiancé. He had began drinking heavily and said he loved everything about me except for my disease. My feeling was he should love all of me. Plus when he started getting behind the wheel drunk, that was too much. I couldn’t bear to lose him over a dumb choice. So this man was sitting in the only chair by the exit. When I answered yes, he said I needed to repent and apologize to God for seeking that treatment. I did immediately. And just then, a staff member called my name to leave and i tuned back around to thank him but he was gone. Evaporated. There was no way he went through the loud, creaky door, nor made it down the hall to the elevator in time. He was an angel. My grandma and my mom, who had flown out to see me also visited me daily in the hospital. They prayed with me and brought me Holy communion. I know God sent that angel to help me heal. I loved my grandma, and I also saw how devoted she was to the Catholic Church for all they did for her. I understand she was doing her best to try to instruct me on how she felt was best. And I’ll be forever grateful for her getting me safely through my twenties. I was a wild child in my teens but got serious about school and life after moving to New York. She had me elected President of the Ladies Auxiliary from the Fighting 69th regimen. Even when I’d be in pain, she’d shake me out of bed to go out to church or dinner or a club meeting. I learned not to be a moper from my grandma. I learned that daily bible reading is essential for inner freedom. I learned that a broken heart can derail you, but the love of God and of family is a healing balm. I have forgiven both my grandma and my priest, and am so grateful for the growth that came out of it. My confidence is much stronger when it comes to issues of faith. I know who my Father is, the Trinity that adores me and calls me His beloved. I have courage like never before in my decisions to worship and love God and people. I have been set free from the constraints of religious elitism. Jesus is for everyone. You are His beloved! He recently gave me this verse:

I have loved you with an everlasting love. I have called you, and you are mine. Jeremiah 31:3

I attend Encounter Church, Las Vegas which is a nondenominational church and where I experience the manifest presence of the Trinity with each visit. We speak in tongues together at each service. I love it. There is a strong unity of community here. We are a movement that loves one another and cheers each other on, praying for each other’s intentions on a regular basis. Plus their worship is so holy and anointed, my soul sings!

From the year of my religious freedom- https://youtu.be/5IlVfkY5q54

Love,

Tisa