Hi Everyone!
Just a few warnings before I get this chapter started!
Warning 1: The majority of this chapter takes place in a church! This may make some uncomfortable
Warning 2: I am not Catholic, so if things are incorrect please let me know. I tried to do as much research as I could for this chapter, but since I am not of the religion this is not pulled from personal experience. I have sat in a few Christian sermons and tried to pull from that, but I know they are completely different.
Otherwise, I hope you guys enjoy the chapter!
Thank you,
Crying_Happiness 💛
Edited 11/19/23
May 8, 2011
I try to suppress the yawn that threatens to slip out from behind my lips. Sunday Mass is exactly an hour and a half long and always starts too early for my liking. I am not a morning person- even though my job requires me to be.
Dad gently jabs me in the ribs when the yawn does eventually escape. He finds it disrespectful when the Father is speaking, but I can't help it after getting sucked into the book that's been left abandoned for the past three weeks.
Besides,Father Ribson doesn't notice or care. His nose is practically touching the book he's reading from, his fingers pinching the frame of his glasses so they don't fall on the holy pages. He might be retiring soon. If not, he should.
Dad, being the half Italian that he is, was born and raised in the Catholic faith. Church was how my grandparents met and they were proud to raise their little family on church pews and ceremonies. Faith has always been important to Dad, but somewhere along the way, he felt that it was a more personal journey than it was something he wanted to raise his kids on.
Growing up, it was an option to go with him. He never forced us and most of the time he had already gone and come home by the time us kids were rising out of beds. There were a few times when I was a little girl when I watched him get ready. When he was done, he always planted a kiss on my cheek before he headed out the door.
Since it's a big part of his life, when we moved to New York, I decided to give it a try. The faith doesn't speak to me, but Dad's happiness is worth a few hours of my Sunday. Especially after everything he has sacrificed for me over the years.
The only problem is how I'm viewed in the eyes of the regular parishioners. They don't see me as their equal. They see me as someone to pity, someone to pray for.. To them, I am an example of His miracles.
Miracles, of course, don't exist. If they did, I wouldn't be disabled- wouldn't have been in that accident in the first place. Miracles are housewife tales to soothe the souls of the restless, a snapshot away from reality. They bear hope when hope is completely and utterly lost.
Hope has no place in my life. It got lost somewhere after dropping out of college my first semester. It took my dreams with it and any sense of direction I had.
Gazing around the room, I take in the architecture of the chapel. It never gets tiring to look at the white marble walls and dark mahogany balconies that hang overhead. It's probably the only positive thing about coming to church.
At the very top of the chapel is a dome ceiling that is made of stained glass. Reds and blues are dotted together, giving way to two cream colored cherubs stretching out towards the middle. I bet the colors dance all over the walls of the chapel; lighting up the whole space and brightening up the dark wooded balconies and pews.
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