I went to Mass on Saturday afternoon. It's been a long time since I just randomly went to Mass when it wasn't for a special occasion. I haven't been a practicing Catholic since I was in my early twenties, since before the girls and I became worship leaders. But as I watched the coverage of the devastation of Sandy, I knew in my heart that I needed to go to my spiritual "home" this weekend. I will admit that I've only watched the coverage sparingly. I donated to the Red Cross and said prayers of thanks for those I know who were safe in the storm, and prayed for comfort for those that weren't. But I couldn't even watch the telethon Friday night because the images just made me too sad. And I know the kind of spiral that can trigger in my mind. So, Mass it was. My paternal grandfather, a lifelong Baptist, told me years and years ago that God doesn't care where you attend, He's just looking for you to show up. And I've generally found that when you show up in need, so will He. Location doesn't really matter, but there's something deeply comforting about Mass to me. Maybe it's the ritual, practiced time and time again, all over the world, and still very much the same. Maybe it's the memories of the people who raised me, not just my family, but people like Linda, my godmother and First Communion teacher. The church is small, and has a new priest whom I'd never met, but his homily brought tears to my eyes and hope to my heart. And isn't that the point of church, no matter where you go?