I am walking amongst pine trees listening to Meggan Watterson. The podcast is an interview about her book, Mary Magdalene Revealed: The First Apostle, Her Feminist Gospel, and the Christianity We Haven’t Tried Yet, and these words bring everything full circle for me. My connection to the women before and after Christ, the hints of missing gospels and a union between Jesus and his apostle, and my confirmation name are encircled by a red thread. I never needed a centuries old, patriarchal organization, riddled with secrets of sexual abuse, corruption, and greed. Mary Magdalene teaches me the most crucial lesson:

It is all inside of me. It was always there. I must believe… in me. 

I spent my high school years, in the early 80s I timed my mass choice to coincide with my boyfriend’s while sitting in a pew that grants me a direct line of sight to see the statue of Mary. College started, and I never bothered to attend while away at school. I dropped in during the religious holidays or Summer Sundays when home visiting, after one tumultuous short-term relationship, involving sex and drugs, I took a trip across city lines to enter the same set of doors where I gave my first confession. I was in search of that fresh off the clothesline feeling. It was time for me to grow up and get serious about the direction of my life. The ten years of racking up poor choices that gave me guilt-ridden shame and diminished self-esteem were unburdened to a clergyman behind a screen. The indoctrination at age seven, had left me believing that I was not worthy unless I was … was what? That would take a few more decades to figure out. 

As a public-school student, I started Catechism class at St. Finbar Church in Burbank, California when I was in the first grade. On Saturday mornings, for one hour, I began my training for the ceremony of First Communion in second grade. After learning all the rules and variations of how to get to heaven, otherwise known as the Ten Commandments, we were ready for our First Reconciliation. The friendly lady, with the beautiful cross around her neck, gathered us into a circle. In a hushed tone of voice, she offered us all a little square packet of beads connected together a string. Our first rosary. Like a fairy godmother, she whispered that if we said our prayers on the rosary — every day, the Our Fathers and Hail Marys, we would go directly to Purgatory. 

At this point, it had been made clear to our little seven-year-old minds, that there was no way anyone, let alone any of us, would be going straight to Heaven. That was for saints, and that had to approved by the Pope. He was the guy God talked to on Earth. The Pope had a direct line. This idea of a fast pass to the front of the line, to some special pre-heaven place, seemed very exciting and worth the time and effort to say some prayers while touching some smooth round plastic. 

I wanted to know more.

She continued in her soothing voice, that Purgatory is the place you go to prepare for heaven and that Jesus’s mother, Mary, is there to guide you, if you say the rosary. I decided then and there that I had better make friends with Mary. Any worries of my ticket to heaven were erased because I would have a special escalator to the halfway house. With our new rosaries in hand, we were lined up to walk across the street to officially confess our second-grade sins in preparation for first communion the following week. They made a point of telling us that even if we made a few mistakes this week, we were still going to be clean enough to receive the host next Saturday, especially if we used our rosary. I thought to myself, “Wow, these beads are magical”. 

They lined us up in the wooden pews by the three doors of the confessional booths. The middle door was wide, and we were told the priest was sitting in there with his loving ears to hear us. A door on each side had lights above them that were green and red. If someone was kneeling, it went red, and we knew it was busy and to wait in line outside the door. If it was green, go in. We all played red light, green light, we knew when to go and when to stop. I was eager to take my turn, pop in , tell about being mean to my brother, and disobeying my parents, and lying about eating the last cookie. Confession was like going through the wash cycle and then drying in the sunshine on the clothesline. I was excited to be bright and fresh. 

I got in there and had to wait. It is dark. I can hear him mumbling in a soft voice to the other kid who went into door #2. Then, WHOOOSH the little panel door slides open and it looks like a beautiful pattern with areas that are like my grandma’s screen door on the back porch to keep the flies out. But it is darker and thicker so I can only see the outline of him. I’m taking in everything I see and then he prompts me with something like “tell me your sins Child”. I don’t really remember but he clearly wants me to give him my laundry list of imperfect actions. “Bless me Father, for I have sinned, this is my first confession”… 

This would not be my last confession, but it was the easiest. 

As we finished, we took the first row, as the newly reconciled, while all the other kids from all the other grades of classrooms, came in for the May Crowning Ceremony. We all waited in eager anticipation to find out who would be named the crown bearer. I had watched the year before so I knew that it was a tradition to name a second grader who would make their First Communion the following week. The next thing I knew, I was wearing the flower crown. I had been chosen. I was special. I was definitely going to be on the speed train to Purgatory. Mary is my new best friend. 

I’ve been indoctrinated.

I am skipping and bouncing, feeling bright and bubbly. I spill out the story to my Dad as he drives us to his parents house for Saturday Swimming. As I am telling my Nana, Pauline, all about the beads and the special place and how Mary is going clean me up first and send me straight to heaven, I catch the tiniest eye movement in her facial expression. It would be a click, a split, the first intuitive uncertainty that I tuck away in my internal filing cabinet. The first glimmer that maybe this story is not what it is cracked up to be. 

Does it mean that I am not as special? 

In my 25^th year, I would meet my husband. He grew up Catholic. We would decide on a formal mass wedding and commit to raising our family in Catholic traditions. I’m not feeling holy. I am doing what is assumed that I would do. I am checking off boxes that please others. On our wedding day, we left two roses at the feet of Mary while hearing the song “Ave Maria”. Mary and I were buddies again and I had joined the Wives Club. I was on my way to being what society had told me was my ultimate purpose in life – a Mother. 

Although we moved in 1972, and started going to Incarnation Catholic Church, we still went back to the church where my parents were married and all four of us kids were baptized. It was more progressive from Vatican II, they railing to the alter was down and they had guitar mass with fun music using tambourines and bells. One week, a visitor got up after the gospel and told us that there were missing chapters of the Bible and gave a story where Jesus had a female apostle and they were probably married and maybe had children. I immediately filed this juicy story in my filing cabinet. Our favorite priest left St. Finbar, our lives got busier, and we eventually stopped making the longer drive to Burbank. 

The church in Glendale was cold and dark. Not the temperature or lighting, the mood. The head priest, Father O’Brien, was gruff. I thought he was sinister and my young mind couldn’t understand why they let such a mean guy run the place. Decades later my mother will blame him for turning her children away from the church. He certainly didn’t promote a desire to participate. Without telling my family, I made a concerted effort to place myself in the pew to be able to see the statue of Mary to the side of the alter. I continued my relationship with the women I learned about in my first religion classes. 

When I was about eleven years old, Catholic communities around the world reintroduced face-to-face confession. The dark booths were replaced by small rooms that gave the choice of pulling back the curtain for a chat or choosing the chair on the side of it. My mother packed us all up before the new school year began and at my first adventure in the new confession style. I walked in to find Father O’Brien sitting on the other side of the billowing sheet. “Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been about five months since my last confession. I talked back to my mom, I was mean to my brother, I missed Mass during summer vacation…” I received a lecture about missing mass, and when I tried to explain that my Mom and Dad had looked for a church and we messed up the times, he chastised me more and then gave me ten Hail Marys and ten Our Fathers. That was the ultimate child-aged penance. I finished the routine and then marched off huffing all the way. I got into the pew and nudged my sister and asked her prayer tally. “One Hail Mary and one Our Father”. I was ticked. I muttered under my breath, “What a jerk” and Mom’s ears perked up and exclaimed, “Who is a jerk? You just came from confession – turn around and go back in there”.  With glee, I went straight back to Father O’Brien. “Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been about five minutes since my last confession. I called you a jerk”. He sucked in his breath, paused, and gave me one Hail Mary and one Our Father with no lecture. 

CCD, or religion class as it was now called, was at night for the seventh and eighth graders. This was the two years for preparation for Confirmation. I viewed it as graduation from weekly boredom. By that final year, I used to watch my ride drop me off, then another girl and I would walk up the street to the grocery store and get a bag of sunflower seeds and crack and suck the salt until we got picked up again at the church parking lot. I guess I must have attended regularly enough that my parents were never notified and I was deemed ready for Confirmation. It will be decades later for me to understand this a ceremony to become an adult of the church. My only involvement was picking a name and asking a friend of my parents if she would be my sponsor. After not much thought I decided Mary Margaret would sound even better with Magdalene added onto it.  In my white robe, I walked up the aisle, and as the Bishop anointed my forehead with oil he announced me as Mary Magdalene. All I could think was: “Have I just been confirmed the whore of the Bible?” 

By the time I was married, I had adapted my own rules about sinning. Premarital sex, birth control, and excessive alcohol consumption were not sins. Confession was no longer weekly or monthly requirement and St. Thomas More in Henderson, Nevada, was a new church that didn’t have confessional booths. They got it done in community style with everyone gathered together at a reconciliation ceremony, and then we could go one on one in the front if desired. Tom and I attended on occasion, but Sunday mornings became our only day of down time and we soon skipped out to spend the day together. 

After we got into our first house, we decided to start a family. I got pregnant right away, but it was not to be, and I miscarried. After three months, we were pregnant again. Another miscarriage. Then I couldn’t get pregnant. After my third miscarriage, I was angry and miserable. Was I being punished? Were we not supposed to be together? We went to a Sunday Mass and saw a notice in the bulletin so we signed up for Marriage Encounter, a weekend for couples. It served its purpose, we had some new communication tools, but the group didn’t feel right for us. It had the flavor of indoctrination that I was resistant to after my early years. There was a young priest we liked so we went to him for council. He shared that adoption through Catholic Charities had a very long waiting list and when I said we were on a list for a fertility specialist his eyebrows shot up and he calmly retorted that the church did not support In vitro fertilization (IVF) or other methods that interfered with God’s plan. I shrugged that off as old school. Why would God gift scientists with all this knowledge if they weren’t supposed to use it? I had my own Catholic Code of Conduct and we moved forward with a reproductive endocrinologist and drifted away from the church again. 

Years passed, and after two more miscarriages, we tried 3 IUIs and moved to IVF. When my donor quality eggs met with Tom’s donor quality sperm nothing happened. In that moment, I confirmed that I was being punished for the abortion I had in college. When the cycle officially failed, I wept until there were no more tears. I was an empty vessel. I got pregnant again naturally, with twins, and miscarriage for the sixth time. Another miscarriage would follow right after our adoptive parent training. 

In that moment, I made a deal with God. If he made me a mother, I would come back to the Catholic Church and raise my children in preparation for the sacraments. 

We adopted a beautiful baby girl and named her Abigail Jo. She was baptized and when I had my eighth miscarriage it didn’t hurt as much, but my heart still stung with inadequacy. I kept my bargain with Him and started attending a weekly toddler and mom group called Little Kingdom. I met many wonderful friends and we joined a group called Ministry of Mothers Sharing (MoMS) They celebrated with me when we adopted our son, Luke Canyon. His adoption had twists and turns and when I gave it all up and put it in God’s hands, the tables turned, Mand we ended up getting the call to be his parents. We named him Luke, bringer of light. I felt rewarded for finally “Letting Go and Letting God”. We were a family of four. We belonged. We had created the nuclear family society preached. 

Six months later, my St. Monica MoMS group celebrated and supported me through my pregnancy and birth of Nathaniel Thomas. I had three babies in less than three and a half years. I joked: “Be careful of what you wish for”. But I felt I had worth. I was a Mother. God came through for me because I had “Always Kept Hope in my Heart”. I would keep my end of our agreement. 

Like all organizations, churches are no different. As I became involved with planning women’s retreats and working behind the scenes, I come to find out that there is a competitive political structure making it difficult for some to be involved and included. I was not a holy roller, but my life experiences of infertility and adoptive motherhood had opened me up to a very broad view of life outside the walls of a parish. Like the other little chinks along the way, I begin to question the Catholic machine. Why does the Vatican have enough gold, art, and wealth to feed the world and it hoards it for itself? Why aren’t women allowed to be priests or leaders? Why isn’t the religious education department expanding its curriculum?

My children resisted religious education. My daughter struggled with the clique groups in her teen years. My boys are bored, and I heard complaints from the teachers that they do not participate. I have distanced myself from formal church gatherings. We got to church, but no one is eager to attend. We continued the traditions of Advent wreaths, Lenten sacrifice, and Easter baskets.

When Abbie starts High School, she comes to me and says that this is not her religion, and she is not going to prepare for confirmation. I do not hesitate to agree that choosing to join the church is a personal decision. I had fulfilled my bargain. I had raised her through the sacraments and when it was her choice, I did not beg or demand. I listened with my heart. I was released from my barter. My boys would make the same choice for themselves in later years.

That Easter season of 2014, we were on a trip for spring break and when we came back, we just never went back to church. There was no discussion. No family meeting. No last straw. We just stopped going. 

We did a few Christmas Masses with visiting family. The kids participated in the middle school years in a sex education program called “In God’s Image”. Our parish was accepting of every human regardless of sexual orientation even if they could not perform the sacrament of marriage for same sex couples. I wanted my children to learn more about sex in a community setting rather than the dark and secretive spaces of my upbringing. 

Through the years, I developed a deep relationship with women before and after Jesus’s life. Mary had always held a special bond for me, but I learned of Martha, Monica, Lucy, and Veronica. Catholics don’t really do Bible Study but MoMS revealed the strength and leadership of women. It will take many more years for me to realize that if I had to name my church today – it is led by Mary Magdalene. 

I grew up Catholic. I no longer recognize the Catholic Church in my life. There is a lot to untangle, unwind, and rebraid from the forty some years of experiences living in and out and back in and back out of Catholicism. 

The original draft of this memoir was set in chronological order and can be represented by a timeline visual.

I took a writing class offered by WOW! Women on Writing by Madeline Dyer called Narrative Structures. CLICK HERE for her September offering. I was introduced to story structures and wrote this piece as an example of a REBIRTH story as outlined by Christopher Booker in The Seven Basic Plots. Later in the class, Madeline challenged me to explore an unconventional non-linear structure. I took this story, broke it into chunks, and reorganized them into a different timeline.

Comparing the two visuals, the most obvious adaptation was swapping the first and last paragraph. I will use this technique again in the future.

Blogpost by Meggan Watterson from July 22, 2020 to celebrate Mary Magdalene Feast Day.

Mary Magdalene Revealed Retreat offered by Meggan Watterson from August 12-14, 2022. Online or Inperson at the Omega Institute.