For most people, reminding childhood is a regular thing. Digging up in the old family pictures or telling stories about that day you looked for precious rocks in the river with your pants rolled up to your knees. I have so many memories that are wonderful, peaceful. A few i could even call magical. Last night, alone on the sofa i made a visit in this life of mine. Made a pit stop at the  precious age of  7, back in the days when church mattered and why it did. My first experience with church is closely related to music. My father was the soloist of the choir, a small but quality one. I would be his most beloved fan. Sitting there watching and listening to my father, with his powerful voice vibrating everywhere around me… wasn’t comparable to anything i had. Then of course i joined the same choir and my presence at church was not unusual. I made friends with the priest, the nuns, the believers , and everyone around. I was requested to sing for masses, funerals, for xmas, and even on local tv. It was fun, to be at church. But then, was it the only reason why i was there? This is the question i asked myself several times. My parents, apart from the choir, had no business there . The gossips around the priest dating his maid were enough to rather keep people outside the church talking about it, then inside the church listening to sermons. They never told me it was important to believe, confess or even be there on sunday mornings. Except to sing , of course. The priest told me at times that my voice was a gift of God and that singing in church, was just like showing him how much i used these gifts in the best of ways. But what about faith? On that sofa, i was remembering many things. These compulsive confessions i would make, the fear i had..about the eye of God on me, the impression that if God is deciding each of my actions…it would mean that none of my decisions would matter. And so on. Not very positive hey? The sermons, were mostly scary to a child. Talking about consequences, death and punishment. The priest at the time, was diving in the dark oceans or in the holy water… So, music was there for me, to rejoice in. And maybe at the time, that was God to me, who knows. I am 7 and the priest talks about scary things so..rather focus on the echoing melodies who are talking about God in a more beautiful way. There is all kind of ways to God, and within me at that time, it was the way it would manifest. Or maybe also in the way i would connect with the people around me so easily, bringing smiles on their faces. My grand mother. She was the believer in our family. She became deaf and blind pretty early in life and..i would enter her house..she would not hear me coming, nor see me.  I would see her though, sitting on her rocking chair with a rosary in hands praying for us all. I would listen to her and see all the love filling up the room trough her silent whispers while rolling the small beads between her dry fingers. To this day, oh time has changed me. The little scared girl is no longer be. Thank you.

For most people, reminding childhood is a regular thing. Digging up in the old family pictures or telling stories about that day you looked for precious rocks in the river with your pants rolled up to your knees.

I have so many memories that are wonderful, peaceful. A few i could even call magical.

Last night, alone on the sofa i made a visit in this life of mine. Made a pit stop at the  precious age of  7, back in the days when church mattered and why it did.

My first experience with church is closely related to music. My father was the soloist of the choir, a small but quality one. I would be his most beloved fan. Sitting there watching and listening to my father, with his powerful voice vibrating everywhere around me… wasn’t comparable to anything i had. Then of course i joined the same choir and my presence at church was not unusual. I made friends with the priest, the nuns, the believers , and everyone around.

I was requested to sing for masses, funerals, for xmas, and even on local tv. It was fun, to be at church.

But then, was it the only reason why i was there?

This is the question i asked myself several times. My parents, apart from the choir, had no business there . The gossips around the priest dating his maid were enough to rather keep people outside the church talking about it, then inside the church listening to sermons. They never told me it was important to believe, confess or even be there on sunday mornings. Except to sing , of course.

The priest told me at times that my voice was a gift of God and that singing in church, was just like showing him how much i used these gifts in the best of ways.

But what about faith?

On that sofa, i was remembering many things. These compulsive confessions i would make, the fear i had..about the eye of God on me, the impression that if God is deciding each of my actions…it would mean that none of my decisions would matter. And so on.

Not very positive hey?

The sermons, were mostly scary to a child. Talking about consequences, death and punishment. The priest at the time, was diving in the dark oceans or in the holy water…

So, music was there for me, to rejoice in. And maybe at the time, that was God to me, who knows. I am 7 and the priest talks about scary things so..rather focus on the echoing melodies who are talking about God in a more beautiful way.

There is all kind of ways to God, and within me at that time, it was the way it would manifest. Or maybe also in the way i would connect with the people around me so easily, bringing smiles on their faces.

My grand mother. She was the believer in our family. She became deaf and blind pretty early in life and..i would enter her house..she would not hear me coming, nor see me.  I would see her though, sitting on her rocking chair with a rosary in hands praying for us all. I would listen to her and see all the love filling up the room trough her silent whispers while rolling the small beads between her dry fingers.

To this day, oh time has changed me. The little scared girl is no longer be.

Thank you.