“You should pick up these books when you have a chance,” the priest said. “No rush,” he said.
I would like to thank God, the unquenchable thirst for knowledge that He provides, and my good friends at Thrift Books.
In other news, I’ve officially begun RCIA and I fear I’m the most vocal of my class. But that just means they’ll spend the next six months listening to me ramble about how awesome God is.
Six months? Indeed. My confirmation date is already on the calendar. Not that it has to be this coming year, but it’s most likely since I’m already a baptized Christian. It doesn’t seem possible. But when God says to get moving, you get moving. When He pushes you toward His intentions, you let yourself be pushed.
He’s provided glimpses of my role in the Church. He’s eager for me to get moving, to be a part of this, because He has so many plans for me. For years I’ve wondered what I’m supposed to be doing, and how I can help Him. But it wasn’t until I was in the right place—not even there yet, but still moving toward it—that His plans could be revealed. I don’t know details. I laugh when I consider the possibilities, because they’re nothing like what I’d planned for myself. But my plans are nothing. He laughs at my plans. His are so much grander, and they can only be fulfilled through His church.
The other day, I asked my cousin if he remembered what church I was baptized in.
(I realize I could ask my parents, but I’m not ready to tell them why this is relevant…)
He didn’t know, which I suspected, since he was in high school at the time. But what he remembered instead surprised me, because for a moment I’d forgotten who my godmother was—his mother.
I can picture so clearly my mother holding you at the altar.
After you were born, the conversation of godmother came up and your grandmother and mother just said, “well, it’s got to be Aunt E!” My mom was already in her late 50s and I remember her just beaming at the church!
We weren’t close to that side of the family growing up, and regrettably I couldn’t make the funeral when she passed away during my college years. But Aunt Edith was a good, honest soul. I may not have been raised in the Church. I may be doing this much, much later than most. But I still feel like she’s guiding me through it. She very well may be.
One day I’ll discover what church it was, and I’ll visit again. And I’ll picture Aunt Edith up there with my parents, and with me, beginning this journey long before I even knew I’d be taking it.
Today, I spent three and a half hours talking to a priest.
I texted my friend immediately afterward. “To be able to have that time with a priest is great,” she replied. I hadn’t expected it myself—maybe an hour, and then I’d be on my way. I didn’t know how I would start the conversation, but we talked. And kept on talking. And he kept on saying how he wasn’t sure how I wasn’t already Catholic, because I’ve been more dedicated than most people he knew.
“I’m still learning,” I said. “I’m doing everything.”
I was the one who brought up RCIA. I already had the info session in my calendar; I corrected him as to what time it began. I think I always knew I would do it. But I needed to tell someone—namely, a priest—to keep me accountable, and to prevent me from trying to back out again. Because when it comes down to it, I’m not doing this for myself. I’m not doing it for other people, though their support has been invaluable. I’m doing this for God, and because God has called me here. It’s time for me to listen.
“There’s nothing holding you back,” he said.
But he disagreed. “You’re already Catholic. You just have to finish the sacraments.”
I have to finish what He has started.