her lips parted in wonder . Whenever I turned to share her view , I only saw the white edges of clouds drifting through . And still , I started going to Mass every Sunday .
I began to feel the pull of my classmates who so comfortably came to the table of Mass each Sunday to feed their beliefs , check in with God , and affirm that He still loved them . They offered the sign of peace so earnestly , that it seemed that God extended from their fingertips . I pressed my palms against theirs , hoping to feel a little of the glow that lived behind their eyes . I hoped those warm sticky palms held some of their certainty for me . I ached for it , the certainty of belief and belonging . I yearned for a pause from stitching together an identity , of being rootless and lost in Texas . I needed a place to rest and , sometimes , the soft padding on the kneeler , the silken tassels in the hymnal between my fingers , and the quiet rhythm of prayer created a tiny space to breathe .
I began to understand the draw to a belief system that supplies answers to the difficult questions so readily . The erasure of complication and the adherence to someone else ’ s navigation of the narrow , curvy lines of ethics enlightened the confusion of turning these issues around in my mind and eased the burden of making decisions about them for myself . The temptation of Catholicism dwelt in the glass-stained beauty of vaulted churches , breathed in the thick marble veins of the Pieta , and grew strong in the psalms set to music so bittersweet , I often tucked tissues into my pocket before Mass .
By my second year in Dallas , while I was studying in Rome , and Bush ’ s presidential push gathered force , I still hungered for someone or something to tell me who I was . This need to belong , to be successful among the people around me , drove me to consider , briefly and dramatically , joining the sisterhood . The great caverns of cathedrals and the frescoed walls of chapels were so beautiful that it hurt to leave them . The damp stones that held up the walls of those thousand-year-old houses of God twisted my heart with longing to remain still and unhurried by life . An existence based on holy contemplation , pulling oneself inward , living outside the world of everyday conflict and disappointing loved ones lured me . The draw to a life whose daily schedule was set , whose companions were determined , and whose set of principles to live by were literally written in a book offered salve to pieces of me that questioned my ability to make tough decisions for myself and stand my ground . Jesus , who accepts any and all without question , seemed like an easy source of validation . I so wanted to believe in a life propelled by God ’ s law and carried out by God ’ s will . All decisions on
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