Photo caption: Sacred Hearts Church on Lānaʻi. Nearly every Sunday of my childhood started here. Photo credit: Seth Willett via Google Maps
When I moved to the mainland, I stopped going to church.
For years I told myself it was because I was busy. That was the easy answer. Looking back, I think it was because I didn’t have my family around anymore. Without them, the tradition slowly faded away.
I’ve never been someone who accepted things simply because I was told to. Even as a kid, I had questions. I loved reading encyclopedias long before Wikipedia existed. Science fascinated me. Nature fascinated me. Every Sunday I went to Sunday school to learn about the Bible, Jesus, and all the other stories that came with it, but I was also the kid asking how Adam and Eve fit into everything I was learning elsewhere.
I still remember the sisters who taught us. They never told me to stop asking questions or that this was simply the truth. Instead, they encouraged me to search for the answers in my own heart. They said that’s where faith begins.
I’ve carried those conversations with me ever since. Even today I find myself somewhere between belief and skepticism. I can appreciate science without feeling it takes away from faith, and I can appreciate faith without feeling like I need all the answers. I’ve just learned to be okay living somewhere in between.
My family, on the other hand, has always been deeply Catholic, like many Filipino families. As far back as I can remember, Sundays meant church. That tradition revolved around my inang baket. She was the matriarch of our family, and if she was going to Mass, the rest of us were going too. The only part I never liked was that she always wanted to go to the 6 a.m. service. I was never a morning person, so most Sundays I stumbled into the car half asleep while the sun was just beginning to come up.
Once we arrived, my inang baket always put on a lace veil before Mass. As a kid, I thought it was just part of her outfit. Years later I learned it was an old Catholic custom that still remains strong in many parts of the Philippines as a sign of reverence and personal devotion. She was that devoted to her faith.
Church itself was a challenge because I couldn’t sit still. I’d swing my legs, slide across the polished wooden pew, or find any excuse to move around. My mom would lean over and whisper, “What, do you have ants in your pants?” in her unmistakable Filipino accent.
I’d settle down for about a minute. Then I’d start fidgeting again. The second warning came with the look every Filipino kid knows. Eyes narrowed. Lips pursed. No words needed. I behaved…for another minute. The third warning never came with words. Out of nowhere, her hand would reach over and pinch the soft spot on the back of my arm. Pain shot through me instantly. I’d make every face imaginable, but I never made a sound. I knew if I did, I’d have an even longer conversation when we got home. I didn’t move an inch for the rest of Mass.
Since moving back to Hawaiʻi, I find myself going to church with my mom again. Not because all of my questions have been answered, and not because I’ve suddenly become more certain. I go because I want to reconnect with my faith, whatever that ends up looking like. Sharing that tradition with my mom reminds me of being a kid again, and for now, that’s enough to keep me coming back.
Sitting beside my mom, I realize church has never been just about religion. It’s where birthdays are celebrated, babies are baptized, couples are married, loved ones are mourned, and families gather week after week. Every Sunday reminds me of growing up, when going to church wasn’t something I thought much about. It was simply what our family did.
While I still have my reservations, they somehow become an afterthought whenever I’m sitting there. Instead, I find myself remembering my inang baket in her veil, my mom giving me the look, and me trying my hardest not to squirm after getting pinched on the back of my arm.
Going back isn’t about proving or disproving my faith. It’s about reconnecting with the people who shaped me and the traditions that quietly became part of who I am and maybe that’s enough.