oh, the humanity

3 years ago, my friend (and former housemate) Keri went off to be a Mother-Teresa nun. I've always admired her for having the balls to actually do it. To commit the unknown rest of her life to a community of women (and priests) and totally give herself over to the service of the poor.
She came back to town this week, as much of an event on legs as she has ever been; but, as B says, "She has always been herself."
Here's the scene:
B and I drive with our wee men to the "party."
We've been invited by and are greeted by another old housemate who apparently still hates me.
Five seconds into the night and I already feel like I've been plunged into a bath of ice water. Trying to make a joke on the way up the stairs into the condo, I receive a heaping helping of that cold, compressed anger that no one but a frustrated, celibate Catholic woman can deliver.
The first twenty five minutes or so, I spend holding a shell shocked "babito" in relative silence. After being accosted in Spanglish by the just-post-Mexico postulant, I am regaled with stories of prayer outside of abortion clinics, an "exact digital replica!"of the image of our Lady of Guadalupe, people feeling her heart beat, flower petals and tears shooting out of her eyes, etc... by hater-roommate (Maybe I am missing something, but "exact digital replica" could be read "photo," right?) Our Lady is invoked countless times; the "devils" of poverty, impurity, divorce, and ignorance in "Our Lady's Land" (Mexico?) deplored; and our young sons' pockets pronounced suitable for "rosarios!"
The following twenty five minutes were marked by me opening my mouth and falling right back into my old role of uncomfortably "earthy" roommate, exhibiting such behaviors as calling body parts by their anatomical names, referring to activities not once mentioned in the Baltimore Catechism, and declining to respond certain pointed inquiries; aided by one speedily ingested Corona. (you can picture me, I'm sure, wide eyed and a little embarrassed, declining the proffered lime with a shake of my head, bottle in the air, as the first swig emptied half of the watery beer into my queasy, grateful, unholy stomach.)

Really, I should have expected most of what happened. But two things were genuinely surprising about the whole evening:
1) I knew that I had changed since university (and certainly since being at home as a kid on cultfarm) but I was really shocked by how deeply distanced I felt from the vocabulary and preoccupations of these people I'd once lived with. I've spent a lot of time since trying to deal with the fact that I really think that most of what I heard was superficial, and, in many ways could easily act as a distraction from what I'd consider to be true enlightenment, or "sanctification."
2) I have much more in common with B than I would ever have noticed or believed without being thrown into this particular situation.

Even more than I am surprised, I find myself relieved. I am no better or worse than my friends or anyone else, and I had every reason and opportunity to get caught up in the other-pitying, self-congratulating, pietistic escapism of "Catha-holic-ism" (as my sister calls it).
Instead, I find myself a fiscally poor, wildly liberal, car-pooling, semi-urban gardener, musician and student midwife; married to a heathen, teaching my two year old to meditate, and guzzling cheap beer in the presence of a Missionary of Charity.

I'd like to note here that I have no idea what is actually taking place in the hearts of these girls, and I fully admit to projecting my own internal analysis onto them, thereby creating for myself that false sense of "otherness" that I claim to so despise.

If I did pray the rosary to put myself to sleep, I would probably spend far fewer nights staring at the ceiling awash in anxiety about climate change, the relative unavailability of quality health care in the US, broadening racial disparity in birth outcomes, and the long term effects of genetically engineered produce; but I am so deeply satisfied to feel a part of this crazy, bleeding mess that it makes up for losing the veneer of sanctity and safety that accompany the superstitious adherence to the dictates of faith. I much prefer the idea that faith (if I even have any) is what keeps me from walking out of grad school classes or losing my shit with a kid tantrum; what makes laboring women able to push past the feeling that pushing is literally tearing them apart; what makes my husband believe that a good song can change the world, and that people really want it to. I guess what I'm trying to say is that any faith that denies the sacredness of each moment and each person in favor of an elaborately constructed and painstakingly maintained system of do's and don'ts and us's and them's just ain't happenin for this "chica."