Catholics are not Allowed to Like Gospel

“What do you have against Gospel music?” he said, shocked that I would actually admit to not liking Gospel music.

“I have nothing against it,” I explained with a shrug, “I just don’t care for Gospel music. Why are you surprised by this?”

“Well, you know, isn't your husband… Baptist?” he said, with that overly casual tone. 

He shifted uneasily in his seat, trying not to appear as uncomfortable as he clearly was as our conversation took on a more serious tone.

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Besides, being Catholic, we are not allowed to listen to Gospel music.”

“What!”

“Yep, it is written in the bylaws. It is right on the list of things not to do like attend a church that is not Catholic and committing suicide.”

(source)

I could see the wheels of his Catholic educated mind turning, trying to recall that moment in school where one of the nuns or maybe a priest may have told him that we, as Catholics, don't listen to Gospel.

I was trying so hard not to laugh out loud.  Trying to stay as solemn as I could, I
stifled my giggles. Honestly, how can he not see I was not being serious?

“You're kidding?” he replied, still trying to figure out if I was really serious.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I am.”








Link up for RemembeRED.

This week, we’re writing about pivotal conversations. The goal was to focus on body language, word choices, and the pauses between the words to create meaningful, powerful dialogue.

And remember, this is memoir–so as tempting as it is, don’t write what you wish you said.

Not Everything Stays in Veags

The plan had been in motion for months and, yet, it seemed to happen too quickly. On a plane, off a plane, in the hotel room and finally sitting in a chair watching a stranger work magic with scissors until she finally placed the simple white tulle headpiece on my head.

I sat there, sipping hurricanes from cheap, plastic, novelty cups and chatting to my friend who came with me for moral support. Secretly, I think he was there to make sure I did not run.

Not that I intended to do so, I did say yes after all, but I often wonder if my friend feared what I would do left to my own devices. This was fair since I was tipsy by the time I was being zipped up and shuttled to the chapel.

As we waited our turn, I started to shake.

This is going too fast. Need to breath. Can’t breath, everyone was looking at me, well all of the eight people who attended – ten if you count the groom and our son. When is this thing going to be over with all ready? Hate being the center of attention and let’s face it, when you are dressed in white everybody turns his or her head to see what is going on, even in Sin City.

Papers signed, bouquet in hand, music starts; as a jet lag toddler and I make our way down the isle. No one more fitting to give me away then the (second) main reason we were there.

The words the minister spoke were inconsequential until I found his face and his eyes just as the minister asked the only question I had to answer and everything stopped.

I held my breath, opened my mouth and the words were stuck.

Finally, I breathed – I do.



Stephen King said, “The scariest moment is always just before you start. After that, things can only get better.”

This week we asked you to write a memoir post inspired by that statement – in 300 words or less.  View the rest here.