Sunday, January 8th:
Well, Cameron and I did our usual church trip today. Since it’s a new year with a new journal, I guess I should explain what that means again, in case only one journal gets passed on to my family, or I become so old and senile I don’t know what any of this means again or—whatever. Visiting our church—It is not what you think of when you think of a church trip—but it’s ours.
See, when we were small, Mom was insistent that we all go to church as a family, so every Sunday we were all there, sitting in the same pew every week, Dad, Cameron and I more asleep than anything else at the early mass—but there nonetheless. After Mom and Dad died, Cameron and I tried to keep going, we really did. In fact, we did keep going. For about six months we were there, every Sunday, dressed nicely and as patiently as possibly enduring the “oh you poor dears” and the “your parents were good people”. But then the case went cold. We were essentially told that they weren’t any closer to finding my parents killers then the day they died, and that they were giving up. Since they told us that, I haven’t stepped foot inside the sanctuary.
At first, Cameron and I would still get dressed up in our Sunday best, and head to church. We would meet people in the halls, stop and talk, let people know we were there. But when it came time for the service to start, we would hang out in the nursery with the toddlers, or on particularly difficult days, hide out in one of the lesser used classrooms and possibly talk to each other, or just sit in silence. Somewhere along the line, we stopped going into the building altogether. We would still get dressed nicely, but we would hang outside on the benches around the church, or sit on the swings at the playground. Eventually, we stopped dressing up. We just go out in Jeans and T-shirts and swing on the swings at the church playground, talking, and having true brother-sister family time.
It’s not that I don’t believe in God, or even that cliché that I’m mad at God for taking my parents away from me. I just don’t understand, and I am not in any position to be taught or made to understand, not yet. Hopefully, someday I’ll be able to walk back into that room, and listen to what they are saying and hear it in English, instead of the pointless gibberish I heard for six months when I was thirteen years old. Until then, I am perfectly content to sit on the swings with my brother, and stare up at the building that meant so much to my mother.
You know what, I’m going to make a promise to myself right here. Before the tenth anniversary of my parent’s death, I will give at least two full-fledged tries to understand church again. In the next six years, I will try to be a good Christian again. Probably not anytime soon, but some time.
Alright, that seems like a good place to stop for the night.
Love and Such,