Blisters, Spice, and Paint

If only I could give up

You know that feeling when you have been walking all day long and a horrible blister has made its way to your foot, and you can do nothing but go on about your day and ignore the stinging pain until you get home and peel the shoe off? And even days later, when the blister has gone away, it hasn’t really left… it still has left its mark?

That’s how I have felt recently about Catholicism. That’s the truth. It’s been like an aching blister I simply wish would go away and in the every day things I am reminded of the fact it is still there.

The last two weeks, I had decided to willfully ignore it. I started going to my Protestant church again and stopped going to Mass because I thought it might ease the ache that built in my chest when friends asked me what church I was going to and I answered the name of the Protestant church I hadn't been to for a few weeks. I thought that if I re-submerged myself in my Protestant community, maybe, just maybe I could forget everything I’ve learned this summer. I could ignore the rosary beads sitting in my nightside dresser, and the prayer cards I was gifted by my cousin. I could forget the Catholic Bible sitting in another cubby in my room and the dozens of books beneath my bed. I could forget it all and go back to how it was when I was Protestant and blissfully unaware of all the things I now know.

And as I worked to ignore it all, I had a friend message me about the carnations in my bedroom.

Yes, carnations; my favorite flower.

She had them in her room too. Identical in fact. The same bright pink one’s from Trader Joes. And as I looked at her message in the middle of my kitchen and then looked up from my phone, I spotted the same carnations in my roommates bedroom because I gifted them to her the day before. Then, I walked in my room and realized a painting I had made two weeks ago where I attempted to paint roses was covered in fact in carnations. (Okay, now you think I’m being silly and going on a tangent. Just hold on and hear me out.)

Of course, I did choose to buy carnations. And yes, they were in my apartment in two places because I put them there and in a picture because I painted it. But when my friend messaged me she had the same one’s I just had this overwhelming strange sensation all these carnations were there for a reason. So naturally, I googled what carnations represent.

The first thing I read made mention of motherly love and I didn’t think much of it. That was until I opened a google tab that read “What does the Bible say about carnations?”

“According to a Christian legend, carnations grew from the Virgin Mary’s tears as she watched Jesus carry the cross,” a website read. Then another. And another.

I looked blankly at the carnations in my room remembering a prayer I had uttered only a night or two before for all things to be made clear. For the Lord to either point me to Catholicism or not. And here I was, unintentionally having Mary’s flowers all around me. But it wasn’t enough. No, it wasn’t enough for my torn heart that has begged for respite. So I whispered a half hearted prayer for something more. Something clear.

And today, two days later, out of nowhere a very very very strange thing occurred.

I have these sorority dates for a “little” (a girl I essentially mentor) where I meet new members and go get coffee with them, a meal, or simply a walk to get to know them more and see if we think we would be a good fit. Today I went on a walk with a girl we will call Tay (this is no where near her real name).

Tay and I met on a local walking trail and quickly started chatting about life and how she was doing as a freshman. And then… out of no where she mentioned Catholicism. I thought nothing of it and continued conversation naturally, waiting to see if maybe she would say she was Catholic or if maybe it was just a random mention.

“My boyfriend is Catholic,” she mentioned.

Oh, I thought, that’s the only reason she brought it up.

“I’ve been researching it a bit recently trying to understand more. Understand his side you know?”

I nodded along but my mind spun. Is she against Catholicism? Is she trying to convince her boyfriend out of it? Oh, that would be a shame.

She mentioned something else and it suddenly struck me that there was something underlying in her words. Not the kind of underlying cynicism I expected, but something different, something curious.

“I actually have researched Catholicism a bit this summer,” I gently admitted as if the words carried little importance.

“Really?” her eyes grew wide and her interest was clearly peaked.

She began talking about a video she was making to highlight the universality of Christian faith and suddenly the word “Eucharist” slipped her lips and my mind froze the red alert signs jumping up and down.

“The Eucharist?” I turned to her and asked. My brows raised and jaw slack, my surprise was obvious.

“Yeah,” she shrugged slightly sheepishly, and in a moment my facade melted away.

“Oh my gosh you- you know about the eucharist?” I asked wide eyed and suddenly unashamed. In seconds it was revealed we had both been digging into the Catholic Church in search for truth the past few months, her for slightly less than I.

She was considering converting.

I was flabbergasted.

We began discussing how she believed in the Eucharist’s truth while I began quoting early church father’s, we discussed contraception and marriage, and the papacy and everything we possibly could think of. And she immediately wanted to know all I learned which spilled from my lips in such quantities it was as if vapor had suddenly become a solid form I could see. Every detail of research I had poured hours into this summer was spilling from my lips at a pace even I couldn’t believe I could keep up with.

And as we discussed our struggles, her’s in navigating her relationship with a Catholic and coming to a new school grappling with these beliefs, and I in my wish that I could forget it all and go back to how it was, I was reminded that I could never go back truly. I was in too deep.

I had been reminded this semester when a guy from a class asked for my phone number and my mind immediately thought of marriage and how much my views on it had been radically changed by the Catholic Church.

It lingered in my mind when I thought about wanting kids in the future and I thought about the foreign yet now engrained desire to baptize them.

It preyed on me when I ate my dinner and whispered a “Bless us Oh Lord” or when someone ended a prayer and my instinct was to make the sign of the cross.

I just couldn’t forget.

I can’t.

And I’m transfixed as I reflect on this conversation that reminded me of every reason I had contemplated the faith in the first place. Every reason that was why the Church lingered in my mind like a spicy taste in my mouth.

And so I write this to be honest with y’all and with myself.

I want to live in woeful ignorance. I want to return the house of my soul back to how it was, every object in its rightful place. But the rooms of my mind are a mess now, I can’t tell anymore if the walls are grey or blue. The paint is still wet and fresh enough I can’t help but continue to re-think the color.

I am having a hard time. A really hard time. Nothing is ever as simple as it seems. Especially not faith.

So here I am. Blisters, spicy taste, and paint.

I am confused and muddled and am having a hard time placing myself in any place. But I am trying. I am going to keep trying to make sense of it all. And I’m going to keep writing even if it isn’t big or small because it matters. It matters to write out these feelings and convoluted ideations.

Thanks for reading. Thank you for your prayers. Thank you for the way y’all have unceasingly loved me through it all. I’m still lingering in a sea of indecisiveness and confusion but I know the Lord has me in His hands. He is continuing to speak to me. I just need to learn to listen.

Photo by Amauri Mejía on Unsplash