One of my earliest memories with God was when I was about 8 years old. It was Good Friday. My mom was yelling at me to get ready for church. I didn’t want to go but I reluctantly went to dress. I decided I wanted to wear a pretty, cotton lilac spring dress. It was wrinkled. My mother said, “you can’t wear that! It’s wrinkled!”. I asked her to iron it. She respond, “No! I can’t iron today! It’s Good Friday. God doesn’t want you to iron today, it’s labor. You’re not suppose to labor today! Find something else to wear.”  Determined to wear this dress, I grabbed both the ironing board and iron and proceeded to do it myself. I had seen my mom do it hundreds of times, it didn’t look too hard. I couldn’t understand why ironing was bad? I only wanted to look nice to go to His house. I burned my left thumb. It hurt terribly. The skin bubbled and oozed. I still have the scar. I cried for my mom. She didn’t console me, instead she rubbed ointment on my burned thumb and told me I deserved this for upsetting God. I was confused. I mean, I was just a kid, I didn’t like upsetting anyone, especially someone who supposedly loved me and was there to protect me.  I just didn’t understand.

I hated going to church. The whole experience sucked. My parents didn’t take me to church often but my paternal grandmother would. On Sunday mornings, she would wake me up and help me get dressed in a pretty dress. She would put ribbons in my hair, this was my favorite. We would walk the 2 miles from my parents’ home to the Spanish Catholic church downtown. I had no idea what was going on when we got there. I just sat next to my grandma, silently. I knew if I misbehaved, she’d tell my dad and I’d be in trouble. The priest would say a bunch of things I didn’t understand, but I listened anyway. Sit. Stand. Kneel. Sit. Stand. Kneel. The kneeling part was the worse. The kneeler was made out of hard wood and it would hurt my bare knees. I’d rest my butt on the pew to ease the pain but my grandma would get upset and instruct me to kneel properly. Church was fun when I saw my cousins sitting behind me. They looked just as bored and annoyed as me, it was fun to stick my tongue out at them or make a funny face – until I was told to stop. I loved when the congregants sang, there were always a couple people with terrible voices who sang the loudest. I would giggle, sometimes too loud and of course, I got in trouble.

My parents made me go to Catechism. It sucked. I had to go most Saturday mornings from 8am to noon. I missed out on Saturday morning cartoons and I had to wake up early.  The nuns were nice but there was always something gloomy about them. I was told I had to go home and learn prayers. I did. I’ve always been good at memorizing songs and poems, learning prayers was a piece of cake.  I did well in Catechism. Honestly, I just wanted to get it over with so I can have my First Communion and wear the pretty white mini bridal dress and have a party. At this point in my life, I had a general understanding of Christianity, but it still didn’t make any sense to me.

I was taught there is a man in the sky and his name is God. He is almighty and powerful. Nothing is impossible for Him. He’s the ultimate magician, miracle worker. He loves me. He protects me. He’s my father and the ultimate authority.  God loves us so much, He sent his only son to Earth to absolve us of our sins. At 8 years old, this idea was just stupid. Why would he send his only son? Surely He could’ve absolved us of our sins and taught us the lesson in a billion different ways that didn’t include his only son being crucified alive to a cross. Whatever, I didn’t question it too much and just accepted it. My dad would read me stories from the Bible. They were cool, interesting, some sad, but they were no different to me than the stories he’d read me from my princess books. He would tell me they were real, I never believed him and told him as much. My dad would tell me to just be a good girl because God is watching and to always have faith. Fine.  

As I got older, this whole God thing got annoying. I couldn’t do anything without fear of pissing him off and getting punished.  Don’t eat meat on Fridays during Lent. Don’t fight with your little brother. Don’t be selfish. Don’t be rude. Don’t say bad words. Don’t disrespect your parents. The list of “don’ts” grew as I did. Don’t have sex before marriage. Don’t even think about boys.  Don’t touch yourself. Don’t have an abortion. Gays are bad, God doesn’t like them. God doesn’t like divorce. Don’t steal in any way, shape, or form. Don’t speak badly of others.  What does this God guy like? He gave us free will but yet he’s up there constantly watching us, waiting for us to fuck up so he can judge and punish us. Is it a game to Him? If He loves me, why does He play with me?  Why does He constantly test my morality? It was ingrained in me that if I want a happy life and for my wishes to come true, I must excel in God’s eyes.  Got it.  So not only am I suppose to be awesome to my parents and teachers, but God, too? It was  too much pressure. I secretly disliked God.

Life gets complicated when you get older. When I was a kid, I’d pray for toys or McDonald’s. I didn’t always get what I prayed for and my mom would say, “God didn’t want you to have it.” I accepted this and went about my carefree childhood. But, things got more complex. In high school, I prayed (or hoped) for fun and lots of friends. It didn’t happen. I prayed for my crush to like me – it happened only after I literally worked my ass off and lost 60lbs. Still, very trivial in the grand scheme of things. In my early 20’s, my parents began to experience marital problems. They had been married for over 25 years and my mom wanted out. It’s still hard to discuss. I often consider it my  divorce because at the time, I was 23 years old and very much aware of every discussion, fight, and subsequent decision. I prayed very hard to God. I didn’t want all I ever knew to completely dissolve. I loved both my parents and the idea of losing this family unit ripped my insides out. To this day, I wish they had divorced when I was a child. As an adult, you are left to deal with so many raw emotions and thoughts and a trip to Disney or a new bike just doesn’t ease the pain and confusion.  As an adult, you know too much and while I agree divorcing was the right decision for them, I wish I hadn’t bared witness to the ugliness. Anyway, I prayed. I got down on my knees. I cried to Him. I begged. I pleaded. I made promises and I meant every single one of them.  He never listened. They divorced and my life sucked for a long while. Now, I’m sure some of you believers will say this was part of His plan. Bullshit. Wasn’t I taught that God hates divorce and that whatever God unites, may no man separate? My parents got married in the church, you know. Why would He go against Himself? If He loves me because I’m His child, why would He allow this to happen, something that caused me so much pain? When I shared this with believers, I got this: “Maybe you didn’t ask with faith. Maybe God is mad at you for something you’re doing. You need to get right with Him.” What the fuck was I doing wrong? Smoking cigarettes? Consuming alcohol? Occasionally having sex with a hot guy from work? I wasn’t hurting anyone, I didn’t see how living the life of a normal 23 year old was so worthy of such severe punishment. Nevertheless, I didn’t give up on God.  I accepted that maybe I didn’t ask with all of my faith.

Life continued to happen.  Bad things happened. I prayed. He didn’t listen. Looking back on the bad things that happened, they still don’t make sense and they didn’t teach me anything so please, save yourself the “well, maybe it was a lesson” speech. No. Fuck that. My mom being near death with some weird illness didn’t teach me shit other than how to research things on the internet. I could’ve learned that without going through the trauma of seeing my mom suffer. More bad things happened.  Particularly, I fell madly, deeply in love with a man who wasn’t ready to give me what I wanted and needed. He hurt me, albeit unintentionally. I turned to God. This time, I was determined to put all my faith in. Again, I got down on my knees and asked with patience, love, and faith. I cried to Him. I begged. Pleaded. Implored. I made promises. I negotiated.  I went to church on Tuesdays and Sundays. I lit candles. I prayed the rosary. I went to confession. I took communion. I turned to His Virgin Mother since He wasn’t listening. I did novenas. I did acts of charity. He didn’t listen. My heart still ached worse than it ever had ever in life. When I spoke to believers, they told me that maybe God didn’t want me to be with this guy. So I started praying with the same fervor as before, only this time I asked Him to heal my heart and to take this man out of my mind and heart. He STILL didn’t listen. When I told believers, they told me that maybe I’m NOT suppose to forget him. Which the fuck is it? I don’t want to feel pain and I’m going to God to help me because He loves me and I’m His child and yet He refuses to give me any kind of help? Was he busy?  I’m here, humbly ready to accept His will and yet, He doesn’t want to budge. What’s with the mixed signals? What’s with the hidden, convoluted messages? I’m dumb, God! Spell it out for me!

I started telling people I was agnostic. I started to lose faith. I started to question if God exists and at this point, I didn’t care.

Then, what is quite possibly the most heinous crime to humanity happened:  Sandy Hook.  I was at work and heard it on the radio, then saw it on the internet.  Emails came in from HR, advising employees they were free to leave work if they were in any way affected (my office is approx 30 miles from Newtown, CT). I’ve never cried when national tragedies have occurred. I didn’t shed a single tear during the September 11^th attacks, not on that day or the days that followed. Yet, during coverage of Sandy Hook, I cried like I had lost my own child in this massacre. What made me even sadder was when I heard stories from  parents of survivors and they said  things like: “We were blessed that day. God was looking after us. He had His mighty shield before us.” Really?  What’s up with this elitist, arrogant attitude? Are you telling me God was too busy to protect the 27 victims of this senseless crime? Why were YOUR kids so special? What sins did those innocent children commit that brought such repercussions? What lesson are we to learn from this? Gun reform didn’t happen so you can throw that out the window, those kids aren’t martyrs.  Why? I need answers!! The brain HE gave me demands answers and I simply WILL NOT accept: “it’s His will”.

I am now an atheist.

I am comfortable with my beliefs, I didn’t get here overnight and without much thought and consideration. Being an atheist isn’t easy.  My parents pray for my forgiveness every single day. Religious people judge me. I make people uncomfortable so I keep my convictions to myself. They feel sorry for me. They think my life isn’t full or happy because God isn’t a part of it. Giving condolences is always hard, a simple “I’m sorry for your loss” feels so cold, even if that’s all I really have to say. Saying “God bless you”, “Thank God”, or “God forbid” are things you say daily and without thought, yet I am mindful when I say them. I don’t want to be a hypocrite.  When I need comfort and assurance that things will be okay, I don’t have anyone to guarantee me of those things, unlike you God believing people. I have to be brave of what awaits me in life and I always leave room in my heart for good things.  Some days, I really do wish I believed in God.  But I can’t fake the funk, I have to be honest with myself. I refuse to believe there is a bearded, white, fairy, hippie guy in the sky that keeps tabs on every single person that has ever lived. I refuse to believe he has a score sheet. I refuse to believe He will punish me if I do anything that offends Him. How can He overlook my requests but not my indiscretions? I refuse to believe that if I make a petition to Him, He’ll answer it. For the record, He’s yet to answer any of my prayers.  I do, however, believe in hard work and luck. I believe if I work hard at something, I will get it. I have faith in me, my abilities, my intelligence, my passion, my desires, and my strength. I have faith in humanity and trust in those I care about. I believe in being a good person, not because I want to please something supervising me but rather because it feels good to do good. I believe life isn’t fair and I can’t take it personally.  Good people aren’t always rewarded and bad people aren’t always punished. I am not morally bankrupt and I do not lack values. I am a decent woman who can be judgemental, vulgar at times, and sometimes selfish. Occasionally, I lie, sometimes I steal, but I don’t need anyone to forgive me.  I forgive me. I am humble enough to recognize my flaws and I work at being a better person every single day. I do not need a handbook or threats of punishment to steer me in the “right” direction. I am thankful for the good things that happen in my life. I am thankful for my family, my health, the roof over my head and the food in my belly.  I am lucky and I know I have more than others. Is God responsible? I don’t know. I do know I work very hard to keep the things I am thankful for. Gay people are cool. I hate that there are so many conflicts and wars in the world and often religions are at the root of them. Religion is a choice and I don’t choose it. If I am ever lucky enough to be a mother, I will not scare my children with God. I will teach them love. I will let them decide for themselves if they want or need God.

My religion is love. Love for me. Love for fellow man. Love for animals. Love for everything, even if it doesn’t serve me any purpose. 

Out of love, I went to church yesterday. The man I love’s father was rushed into emergency surgery. I got on my knees and prayed to God for the first time in four years. I lit a candle, too. His surgery was a success.

Coincidence? I hope not. I really want to improve His batting average.