Proud of My Catholic Roots

My mother belongs to a local church group known as Catholic Women's Association (CWA). Yesterday, the CWA members converged at our home for a mass. Some of the members arrived in the morning to prepare meals and clean our living room where the mass was to take place.

At around 1:50 p.m. after all preparations were done and dusted, the CWA members gathered in our living room for the mass. They sang, talked and prayed with a zeal I would wish to emulate in my Christian walk.

Well, I didn't join the women for the mass because I thought it unwise for a young man like me to be in a group of old women. I just sat in my room, meditating and reading "Our Daily Bread" devotional book (2022 edition).

As I enjoyed the flow of my thoughts while meditating, I was moved by the Catholic songs I heard the women sing. The songs reminded me of my Catholic days.

My parents did a fine job in bringing up my brothers and I in the way of the Lord. They had us attend church every Sunday at our hometown Catholic church. When my kid brother Symo and I were little, I remember hearing Mum complain that one of us was crying too much in church.

Despite that crying, we all grew to be nice boys. My eldest brother Joe Kagigite set the standards for us when he began serving as an altar boy during Sunday masses in the mid '90s. Bob and Paddy, my other two elder brothers, followed suit.

My kid brother Symo became even more religious. I will never forget the Saturday in 1998 when he attended a healing mass with a broken arm. In the course of the mass, he claimed his broken arm was miraculously healed.

Elated by the healing, Symo went to share the news with the then church catechist, a good-natured man named Josphat Karanja. I am not sure if Symo's arm was really healed. All I know is that he never again wore the bandage a doctor had swathed on his broken arm.

As for me, I started having the eagerness to attend church in August 1997 when an opportunity opened up in the church for me to learn how to play the piano. After that, I was always in church every weekend. And all the nuns, priests and seminarians I interacted with were men and women of integrity.

In 1998, I enrolled for a two-year catechism course that children in my church were required to attend for them to be permitted to receive the Holy Communion. The main aim of the catechism course was to instil us with biblical principles but for me, what I liked most about the course were the beautiful girls I got to mingle with.

After successfully completing the catechism course, I was in April 2000 confirmed to be taking the Holy Communion during a Sunday mass in which we boys were required to dress in white shirts and black trousers. The day before the mass, I was fizzing with excitement at the prospect of receiving the Holy Communion.

Being allowed to receive the Holy Communion meant that I could now serve as an altar boy like my elder brothers. I did serve as an altar boy on several Sundays but I can't really say I enjoyed it since I found it difficult to understand the minor details that went with assisting the priests in the mass.

All in all, I miss the splendour that were my Catholic days. Even though the memories of those wonderful times I sat in catechism classes memorizing the Lord's Prayer and Hail Mary have faded from my mind, I appreciate the belief in God they inculcated in me.

My strong moral principles, my passion for learning and my love of godly music can be traced back to my Catholic upbringing. The church did indeed lay a good foundation for my life that has served me well in life so far. That's why I am proud of my Catholic roots.

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RECOMMENDATION: If you've enjoyed the above story on how proud I am of my Catholic roots, you might also enjoy another one on "Salvation is Free Folks!" which I wrote about five years ago. Just click on that link in blue to dive straight into the story.