Every other weekend, I would stay with my dad and step-mom. They married when I was five. Sis and I were in the wedding. I liked my step-mom but she scared me, too. I was afraid of doing something wrong, which was easy as there were four sets of rules to follow (my mom’s, my dad’s, Lee’s and Christine’s) and I didn’t want to follow any. The rules were all different, too. My parents were much more relaxed than the “steps.” Still, Christine was a great influence in my life. She built my pride in being a woman: she was a feminist, liberal and a catholic.
Christine attended St. Thomas Aquinas Catholic Church. It was completely different from the Methodist church in Charlotte. An enormous room with a ceiling that felt a mile high made the church an intimidating yet beautiful place. It hosted 1,000 people weekly. Their minister was called a priest but he had a small posse following him around as if he were Jesus. Beautiful robes, beautiful stained glass windows, beautiful pews…and right in the center, was a giant, dead Jesus, hanging from a cross, staring at all of us.
Did I mention this church was intimidating?
The Catholics did all sorts of cool things like kneeling, crossing themselves, dipping their fingers in holy water, and communion. For some reason, however, my step-mom never went up to receive communion. I didn’t ask why and knew I wasn’t allowed to receive it, either. After all, this wasn’t my church. I wasn’t a member. These people were too good for me. I worshipped and talked to God in my heart but I felt surrounded by something I could never have. I could never be good enough because I wasn’t born Catholic. I was a lowly Methodist.
The second church I attended had yet to explain why Jesus died for us. The connection wasn’t made. But there he was. Hanging dead from the cross. Staring at me. I knew to feel guilt. Feel it deeply.
Home life in Charlotte was good. I loved and detested Chad and Fawn as if they were my own brother and sister. Fawn and I shared a bedroom from the beginning. We had bunk beds and would pray every night. It was weird because God and Jesus were important but they were such distant beings. Our nightly prayers thanked him for this and that, asked him for so-and-so.
When I was still fairly young, my mom found us a new baby-sitter (we had several). This family lived in downtown Charlotte and, oh joy, they had two little boys our age. We had no choice but to go. Their boys were hellions and actually got us little angels into trouble. One time, Fawn and the younger brother were caught eating cat food. The dad picked out a nice piece of wood and began to carve it into a giant hand. Fawn knew she was safe but the other kid was hysterical. We got the real hand when we were bad. This poor kid was being tortured with a thick, wood board. Yikes. Wednesday nights, when our parents worked late, we had to attend church with the family. It didn’t make sense that they attended church during the middle of the week. It was all a little strange. Their church was outside of town and looked nothing like ours. Everyone sat in chairs and instead of a pastor, the members would get up and speak. This family didn’t watch us for long, though. But now, I equate Witnesses to this: a large, carved wooden hand ready to smack my butt if I stepped out of line.
My sister graduated from high school and moved to Lansing. She started dating a pastor at this small church called Mt. Hope. I started going to church with her. This was a church unlike any I had ever been to. People were yelling, screaming, rushing to the alter, babbling…I think I wanted to cry in fear. I saw the effect it had on my sister, though. She loved it. She had a personal relationship with Jesus and with all these people. I liked the people, too. They were fun and young. I would hang out with everyone after church. No one really pushed Jesus on me, but I felt this weirdness. I wanted to fit in, though, so I started throwing my hands in the air and pretended to “feel God”. The church was growing immensly. They were building a new facility and it was immense. It was about this time when my sister gave me a necklace with a peace dove hanging from the chain. She told me this necklace would give me faith and keep my faith. I wore that necklace everyday for a year until the day it broke. A week or so later, my friend Kim died. I was convinced it was because I wasn’t wearing the necklace. I tried to fix it and asked my sister for a new one. She laughed. “It was just a necklace,” she explained. Huh? I was now 12 and pretty confused. Look what I had been exposed to so far:
Jesus in the Methodist church—the guy who hung out with little kids and sheep; always seemed to be smiling; smelled kind of dusty; really boring
Jesus in the Catholic church—regal, dead…very dead, snobby, boring
Jesus in the Kingdom Hall—not there but at the home of the Lounds, he was going to spank my behind for thinking bad thoughts; boring
Jesus in the Pentecostal Church—really flippin weird
My sister’s engagement was broken and she left the church. Secretly, I was glad. The place freaked me out too much. I left Mt. Hope church at 12 and never went back. When I look back, the whole experience was strange. All I wanted was tradition, I wanted to be around familiarity.
A new pastor began leading the Methodist church and he really shook things up. People were excited and attendance rose. Pastor Bob also began a youth group. It consisted of seven kids, the only kids who attended the church. My mom volunteered us to join. We bellyached but went. Pastor Bob had us visit senior citizens homes, hold spaghetti suppers, and he tried to get us to talk about Jesus. I hated it. It creeped me out. I liked Jesus on my own terms but I was almost a teenager and I was starting to rebel against goodness. Pastor Bob was a music reviewer for Youth magazine. He asked Chad and I to help contribute. The two albums we had to critique: Bon Jovi’s New Jersey and Kylie Monogue’s Locomotion. I put my good, little, Christian girl hat on and ripped apart the Bon Jovi album. I told Pastor Bob what he wanted to hear. Secretly, I liked Bon Jovi.
Trying to be someone you aren’t gets tiring after awhile. Chad felt the same way. We rebelled against the pastor. He would ask us to do something and we would flat out say no. I remember this conversation well:
Bob: Alright, who’s going to volunteer to do the dishes after the pancake supper?
Chad: Like any of us are going to volunteer.
Bob: Okay, then, Chad can do them.
Chad: I’m not doing anything (leaves room).
Bob: Holly, you and Darrick will do the dishes.
Me: Okay, I’ll go get Darrick (disappears outside and finds Darrick hiding in the cemetery; ducks behind a nearby headstone).
We were jerks. Eventually, we quit going. I was talking to Chad recently about Pastor Bob. He hung his head and said, “I treated that guy so badly. I’m pretty ashamed of myself. All he ever wanted to do was help and teach us.” I never felt guilty about Bob before then. I feel a little guilty now.
The summer of 1989 approached. It was one of the best summers of my life. It was also my last summer living in Charlotte. My mom and I were finally leaving. After 9 years of being together, she and Lee were finally breaking it off. My mom found a place in Holt that she could afford and I was excited to move to the big city. I was also excited because my sister and her fiancé lived a few blocks away, the closest I had ever lived to my sis.
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