Loss of Faith

When I was a teen, 14-15 my father insisted we go to church in a little town named west Alton in Missouri. We had a clubhouse off the Mississippi nearby. My father and Uncle Kenny would always get drunk beyond all reason on Saturday and come Sunday he was hung over and always late to church. We would walk into the little church, my father unshaven and the entire congregation would stop and stare at us as we walked in. My father would snore so loud in church it would disrupt the mass. I did not want to go in the first place, but the embarrassment was just unbearable. My uncle had a roofing business at the time and he had a 2 ton flatbed truck that we would go to church in. He would always drop us off in front of the church and say he was going on down to his church, (a tavern an eighth mile down the road) that sold 3.2% beer and was open on Sundays. After leaving church early (which would cause the congregation to stop and stare at us again) we would walk down to uncle Kenny’s church where he and dad would have another beer before going back to the clubhouse and begin their drinking for the day.

I never did like going to church and I do not begin to say this was the reason I quit going to church when I was away from home in the navy. I am just speaking of the total embarrassment of going with my father. My mother had quit going to church years before, but my grandfather went as long as he could drive himself. I always went with him as long as I could because he always got there before mass began.

I passed out once in church when I was just perhaps 5 years-old. Some men picked me up and hauled me out in the middle of services. I woke up and was outside and I thought that was pretty good, so I faked it a few more times just to get out of church. I never liked going even as a young child. My mother’s greatest wish was that I become an altar boy. I disappointed her when I declined, and today I am sorry, but I never did like church and altar boys went there way too often for my taste.