Emmaprovement Continues...

My relationship with God is, well, a little shaky. We both know about each other, sure, but we've never been properly introduced.

My parents may have been raised proper Irish Catholics, but when they moved to Canada they made a conscious decision not to raise us with religion. So they didn't.

I've been to church, maybe, three times. I don't know the words to the Lord's Prayer. Or any prayer. I am, actually, Godless. A heathen, I think is the word.

Since this column began, I've been trying to find someone to go to church with me. I even suggested it when Brandon was here, as a nice touristy thing to do. He looked like I suggested something properly horrifying.

'Lightning will strike us down,' he said. I laughed, but got a little worried. It has been stormy.

'Wait,' said Brandon. 'What are you?'
'Catholic, technically. Well, my parents are. You?'
'Protestant,' he said.

I've known him my whole life and we've never had that conversation.

Finally, Julie, who is basically my sister, agrees to go with me. Our mothers are best friends. Our fathers went to high babies together in Galway. Her parents raised her Catholic, so she actually knows the protocol. Phew.

But finding the time to go proved very difficult. For weeks, either Julie or I would call each other Sunday morning, begging off the 11am service.

So last week, we decided to meet outside Brompton Oratory (if you are going to do church, might as well go posh) for the evening service, thinking perhaps that some sexy John John Kennedy-style Catholic stud might spot me in my fetching hat and kid leather gloves and fall in love. That's the appeal of church, really, the outfits.

Waiting outside, I started getting nervous. What if they suss me out? What if, like at bible camp, one of the elders takes me aside to let me know just exactly what hell and brimfire really means.

'Okay,' I hiss at Julie at the gates. 'Tell me exactly what we do from the moment we walk in those doors.'

'You'll be fine,' she says, taking my arm. She crosses herself in the holy water as we walk in, and gestures for me to do the same. I decline, still anticipating the cracking sound of lightening hitting the roof. We light a penny candle (present cost: 25p) and wander around while we wait for the 7pm service to begin.

Julie shows me the confessional booth and I try to imagine just how long I would have to spend in the box. Years, likely. We quietly check out the congregation, both of us silently wondering if some Spanish or Italian (Catholic) Stallion might wander in.

And then he does. Tall, suave, well-dressed, he's my mother's wet dream of a son-in-law. Julie and I sit close, but, you know, I don't think it's appropriate to cruise guys in God's house.

I was a little worried about following along, but thankfully, at Brompton Oratory, they give you programmes so tourists like me can follow along. Soon, I was 'and also with you'-ing in time with the natives.

When I was growing up, my mother always got a little wistful about church. Not necessarily the religion, but just the act of sitting quietly among people, the ability to be quiet with your thoughts.