In the beginning God created heaven and earth, and in the beginning I started going to church. My family doesn’t make an occasional cameo appearance on Christmas Day and Easter morning. No, we sit, stand, and kneel every Sunday, and we’ve done so since before I was potty-trained. From the day my parents stopped keeping me quiet with cheerios and coloring books, I’ve been asking why we couldn’t skip just one week of mass. My mother tells me, “We have to thank God for all He’s given us.” On vacation in the Cayman Islands, we attend the Baptist church to thank God for a week of scuba diving. Before dinner each night, we hold hands and pray. Thank you, God, for our lovely family, our health, our happiness, and the lasagna on my plate-which I cannot wait to eat. Sometimes I reflect on how truly thankful we are, other times I just dig into the lasagna.
I’ve always believed in God, but never expected to be as pious as my grandmother, who shakes the priest’s hand more vigorously than a five-year-old being introduced to Mickey Mouse. If I touch my head or sneak a piece of gum during the sermon, my grandmother mutters that I may as well be an atheist. She prays to St. Anthony for me, and when I ask why she’s praying to the patron saint of lost items and travelers, because all I did was tie my shoe, she tells me to stop being wise. Although my mother thinks this is just a phase, I have begun to have my doubts. I have some trouble believing Jesus turned ten fish into meals for thousands, and doubt anyone could even stand on water without a surfboard and some killer abs.
My mother and father wanted to visit Italy. My grandmother wants to pay for my trip because it’s a Catholic country and will do me some good. She’s right, at least initially. The first city in our tour is Venice; I marvel at the religious paintings in the Doge’s Palace and am in awe as soon as I enter the