Joy Stories: The hole in my heart

The entire family was received into the Roman Catholic Church at Easter Vigil 2009.

By Vijaya Bodach

I grew up in India in the Episcopal Church. My mother read to us from the big Marathi Bible, and my earliest memories are of me in love with Jesus. I’d sit on half a chair, reserving the other half for Jesus. I often fell out of my chair. When I started school at St. Joseph’s Convent school, I wanted to become a nun. I was so proud of my heritage, with my mother being the daughter of a priest, who became a bishop. Her older brother was a priest. I loved that there had been a priest in the family in every generation.

But as I grew older, and became aware of the suffering around me, I could not understand how a loving God could permit such pain. “Do something,” I would pray. But my prayers went unanswered. By the time I was twelve, I stopped making space for Jesus in my chair, and in my heart. I quit talking to him. I decided he didn’t care enough. And I cried and cried because I’d lost my best Friend.

A couple of years later, when I was fourteen, we moved to the U.S. We joined the Episcopal community. I went to church, but only to please my mother and to sing in the choir. My mother died shortly after I turned 22 and I no longer had the desire to go. I didn’t want to pretend to love Jesus when I felt so completely alone. I had to take care of myself, become independent and self-sufficient because I had no one to rely on anymore. I filled my heart with my studies and work, friends and lovers, music and dance, without realizing how hard-hearted I was becoming. I called myself an atheist.

I was a research scientist for many years. I got married to my college sweetheart, Michael. Together we had two children, Max and Dagny. I quit working to stay home and raise them. I still stepped into a church once in a while—for weddings and funerals. I craved for some sign that Jesus cared. But nothing special ever happened. Life went on as usual.

What about the children?

The children started growing, and once they started school, Michael and I wondered how to counteract the permissive culture, short of homeschooling them. We had parental authority, but nothing higher than that. Had we made a grave mistake in not introducing them to God? What right did we have to deny them this fundamental knowledge? It’s one thing to know of God and reject Him as I did. That is free will. But to not even have the opportunity?

I wouldn’t forgive myself if that emptiness got filled with other things—evil things. Evil is real and present. I wanted to arm my children with something real and tangible to fight evil, the true cause of suffering. I wanted my children to have what I had as a child—love in Christ. Even if He was just a fairytale, I couldn’t deny the power He’d had over me and the effects—complete trust that all will be well, a security that was completely irrational given the state of the world, and a certain resilience that was also unearthly. I didn’t know that what I’d possessed was a peace that passeth all understanding.

Which church?

For Christmas that year (2006), I purchased a children’s Bible with beautiful pictures and historical references. Michael, who hadn’t been raised in a religious environment, offered to read. He spent almost a year reading Bible stories to the children and was amazed and delighted with them. Yet we felt like hypocrites because as much as we wanted our children to have religious instruction, we didn’t believe. So the conversation turned to going to church. But which one? The number of denominations seemed to have mushroomed since I was a child. There was a gathering of non-denominational Christians that met in the school cafeteria, but it seemed so casual. I knew that when two or three are gathered in His name, He is present, but we wanted a sense of the sacred, something transcendent.

There was a big church at the bottom of the hill that advertised “No Weird Stuff.” Whatever did that mean? It implied that weird stuff was going on in churches. This finger-pointy attitude turned me off right away. When I looked to the Episcopal Church, it was nothing like the one in India or even the Episcopal Church we’d attended when we first moved to the U.S. There were women priests and even homosexual ones. How could it be? It was as if the church was being remade according to whatever was acceptable in that age.

We didn’t think a church ought to be so changeable, where in one decade they denounce abortion or homosexual relationships and in another, even celebrate it. I knew enough history to understand that the different Christian denominations came from doctrinal disputes with the Catholic Church. The answer became was obvious—we needed the Church that Christ established.

Finally home

The following October we stepped into St. Jude Catholic Church. I wept all through the liturgy. My children worried about me. I whispered to them I was happy to be finally home. After Mass, I tried to enroll the kids in Sunday school, but the lady in charge asked about their ages (7 and 9 years old) and if they’d been baptized. When I said, “Never,” she told me I needed to speak to the deacon about RCIA—Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults.

Although I was annoyed by what I thought were hoops we had to jump through, I quickly realized that RCIA is designed so that one may make an informed decision. We began the long process of studying and questioning. Sunday mornings, Michael and I would be dismissed after the homily to ponder the Gospel while the children sat with our sponsors for the Canon of the Mass. After Mass, we’d have our instruction in the faith with our sponsors. I’ll always be grateful to the Knights of Columbus for watching over our children. After a few hours at home, we’d return for evening Mass and the children’s religious instruction. Perhaps our family needed a double dose of the Word to take root. But I’ll always be grateful how our Sundays automatically became holy days.

We questioned so many things—the teaching on marriage and sexuality, the Eucharist, on life. I reversed every belief I held that went against the tenets of the faith. I did so willingly even when I didn’t understand everything because I looked to Mary as an example, who didn’t argue with the angel at the Annunciation, but gave her fiat. Paradoxically, everything held together beautifully, even the mysteries of the faith.

Rite of Acceptance

I wonder now if it was due to the powerful prayers at the Rite of Acceptance when our foreheads were crossed with the following words: “Receive this sign of the cross on your forehead. It is Christ himself who strengthens you now with His love. Learn to know and follow Him.” After that, the priest said the following words as my sponsor made the sign of the cross over my ears, eyes, lips, etc.

“Receive the sign of the cross on your ears, that you may hear the voice of the Lord.

“Receive the sign of the cross on your eyes, that you may see the glory of God.

“Receive the sign of the cross on your lips, that you may respond to the word of God.

“Receive the sign of the cross over your heart, that Christ may dwell there by faith.

“Receive the sign of the cross on your shoulders, that you may bear the gentle yoke of Christ.

“Receive the sign of the cross on your hands, that Christ may be known in the work which you do.”

“Receive the sign of the cross on your feet, that you may walk in the way of Christ.”

I wept. These words and the sensation of having my hands and yes, even my feet blessed, were overwhelming. I had fallen in love with Jesus all over again. That Christmas was packed with meaning. O come let us Adore Him, Christ the Lord.

Filling the hole in my heart

During Lent, there were scrutinies and minor exorcisms. I almost lost it all on Palm Sunday. After reading the Passion during Mass, I felt unworthy. I knew I deserved death, not life. But Jesus drew me to Himself and showered all His tender mercies upon me. I wanted nothing more than to be in the shelter of His Cross, to be washed clean in His Blood.

On Easter Vigil—April 11, 2009—a date as important as the ones when I got married and gave birth to my two children, I watched Michael, Max and Dagny, baptized. My heart was so full, I felt as if I were giving these three loves of mine to Jesus, my first love. Then together, we made a profession of faith and received the Body and Precious Blood of our dear Lord Jesus. Week by week, the God-shaped hole in my heart began to fill. I no longer fall out of chairs, but I am whole again.

Vijaya Bodach is scientist-turned-children’s writer with more than 60 books for children and just as many stories, articles and poems in children’s magazines. BOUND is her first novel. You can find out more about her at https://vijayabodach.blogspot.com

© 2019, Vijaya Bodach