How This Churchgirl Became Churchgirl Part 1

How This Churchgirl Became Churchgirl Part 1

My first memory of church is of a two-year old me sitting on my mother’s lap in the “cry area” to the side of our local catholic church. Church was very echoe-y. It was very reverant. It was a holy place. And I was a terror. My mom wore this beautiful, shiny string of pearls, and I loved the way they felt in my little fingers. I pulled the string of pearls, and all of a sudden, there in the reverent, catholic, holy silence there were 5 million pearls dropping on the shiny hard floor and bouncing and bouncing—so much noise! And I did it! And my mother was absolutely mortified! Oh, the power!

But we were not excommunicated, thank God. I grew up in that precious, holy church, and every Sunday my mom would hold my hand in the line to take communion and the priest (we called him “father something”) would place a thin shining wafer on my mother’s tongue and say “the body of Christ,” and she would say, “amen.” Then the priest would lay his kind, fatherly hand upon my head and bless me. I felt blessed. My mother called the church “God’s house,” and I really and truly believed God lived there. (Once, my brother told me that the ocean was God’s bathtub. I really couldn’t understand how a God Who was so large to bathe in the Pacific Ocean could also fit in the church building that was His “house,” but my faith in God wasn’t shaken and I was willing to suspend my disbelief.)

I went to catholic school and learned that Confession is the most terrifying thing ever. My mother insisted I refrain from praying “The Hail Mary” prayer, because praying to anyone other than God is sacrilege. So when all the other children dutifully recited “hail mary full of grace the lord is with thee…” I said nothing. I felt like I was staging some kind of quiet protest. Nobody really noticed.

My mother was seeking. Something was missing for her. We went to alternative-type catholic church group meetings in peoples’ homes. I had my first communion in one of these churches. We had big, fluffy, Hawaiian sweet rolls torn up into pieces for communion, and REAL WINE. I love the catholics.

It was 1977 or 1978. My mom and dad started going to these revival meetings in L.A. The preacher was John Wesley Fletcher. This is where they “found Jesus,” “became born again,” and “came to know THE LORD.” Then one night they decided to bring me along. And when the altar call came I said yes. I cried. I wanted to know God through Jesus Christ. We walked up to the front of the stage together, the three of us, and I was slain in the spirit. The preacher put his hand on my forehead, and immediately I fell softly to the floor because the Holy Spirit’s power flowed through my body and I could not stand in His presence. I still do not understand the purpose of this exercise except to show it was the Spirit of God moving in our midst and not some counterfeit, made-up performance. Jesus when He preached and taught the multitudes performed many signs, wonders, and miracles. After He ascended to heaven, his followers also performed many miracles, signs, and wonders. I think it’s a way that God says, “I am in this.”

So no more catholic church for us. We joined a Pentecostal congregation and I got to go to the local Christian school.

My Dad was delivered of his alcoholism. My parents read lots of books about their new-found faith. There was a well-worn Bible in my Dad’s work truck. And church. Lots of church.

Sunday mornings, of course, Sunday nights, and Wednesday night prayer meetings.   This is where I learned about Who God is and my relationship with Him. It was real.