This title doesn’t necessarily answer the prompt nor does it really encompass how I feel about certain organized religions. I could on and on about each one I’ve been.
But my early days in religion were with my youth group in high school. I was fifteen years old and me and the majority of my friends went to a small, country Baptist church out in the sticks of East Texas. We were a very active group, raising money for special youth events by washing cars and I think we sold magazine subscriptions once (man, I’m old). I loved Vacation Bible School and I assisted with the youth choir direction. I taught all the corny songs to these kids via a tape (yes, an actual cassette) that was provided with the Bible School program we got every year. Hell, I still remember the words to a song called “Always Be Humble” which gets stuck in my head at the strangest times. Like when I’m trying to fall asleep.
Are you there, God? Well, stop it. I gotta work in the morning.
My youth group Bible study nights at the parsonage were a blast, and we weren’t afraid to ask the hard questions to our pastor, Brother Raif.
Lordy…Brother Raif. He was a hoot. Thirty years old, six-foot-two, and not a hair on his head. He told us he started going bald during his freshman year of high school. He had a booming voice with a joyous lilt that kept you alert throughout the entire service. He was also the one that baptized me. One of my most vivid memories is walking up to Brother Raif during the invitation and asking if I could be baptized.
I’m no longer Christian, believing that the Spirit is how you make it and how you live by it; however, I still get tears in my eyes reliving that moment.
His wife, Rebecca, was a beautiful and gracious woman. She had long, ginger hair and sang like an angel. She was an incredible hostess who tolerated our teenage wiles and made sure the boys didn’t sit too close to us girls. The Holy Ghost needs to have a place to sit, too. She also made the best food. No pizza bagels and take out. She made huge servings of spaghetti and homemade meatballs with garlic bread or meatloaf and potatoes. We were truly a church family in that house.
They were the most loving and dearest couple I have ever met and will never forget. Last I heard of them was years ago when they adopted a few children. I really hope they’re doing well and I think about them sometimes.
My faith has been tested a few times in my life and though I don’t answer to the Judeo-Christian God and am at peace in my nature-based spirituality, I have learned valuable lessons and have met people who were Baptists, Methodists, Episcopalians, and Catholics who were truly the salt of the Earth. It’s rare to find that even in a church these days.
I have played with the thought of going to a Mass again. I do miss Christmas at Midnight. There’s a Unitarian church near me that always has its doors open.
Still, I’m not too comfortable sitting in a pew underneath dimmed lights with a giant cross bearing down on me. That may be rapturous to some (see what I did there?) but for me it brings up mixed emotions.
Why have organized religions at all? That’s a post for another day. I feel that all you need to do in this life is to be charitable to others when you can and to be charitable to yourself always.
I believe in a higher power. There’s got to be something omniscient in the vibrations that move our world. Are they listening to me? I’d like to think so. I’m inhabiting the same sphere of energy, after all.
Someone’s gotta be listening.
Mysti Gayle 
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