Maybe you saw her serving champagne on a one-for-you, one-for-me basis at a big nun party, shooting corks for children to catch. Later, you’d bond that one summer week watching science fiction movies in the novitiate basement. You’d be thrilled when she came to live in your same convent. It would make sense, the life-sized poster of Spock in her bedroom, just down the hall from yours.

Sana, sana, colita de rana. Si no sanas hoy, sanarás mañana.

My mother and I, along with my children, have come to visit my Tía Eva. She is my mom’s tía, my great aunt, but I have only known her as Tía. It is what I told my children to call her, as well. Just as her name hasn’t changed, neither has her house. Even though I haven’t seen her in years, I walk the same cement steps leading up from the side of the house into the wood panel living room cluttered with memorabilia. Sit on the same floral upholstered settee sofa amid the photos and porcelain figures (myriad bells and keepsake boxes), crochet doilies like the crosshatch sugar crust of conchas, on the various coffee and end tables.

When I was seven years old, I spit out the body of Christ.

It wasn’t an act of rebellion, only the reflex of an unselfconscious girl I must have been once. My Sunday school teacher asked for a volunteer to demonstrate how to take communion, and I volunteered for everything then. She told us it was bread, but as soon as I tasted the wafer, I was sure there’d been a mistake—the sliver sticking to my tongue and then, suddenly, to my outstretched palm, had to be cardboard.

The clock in the kitchen screams at me through the quiet. Tick.

I sort my emails because categories make sense. I re-arrange the salt, bananas, and paper towels because I propagate structure. I compose paragraphs in my head because I make the things I need. Tick.

“For now, all I want to say is that I’m extremely worried about you. And about Jamie. And I’m saying that because I love you.”

The Sunday after Frank E. Campbell Funeral Chapel called me to say that, by law, they could not keep her ashes any longer, I marched into parish office of St. Patrick’s Cathedral and demanded of the receptionist, “How does one become Catholic?” I was directed to a Filipino woman, a parishioner-catechist, who smirked at me with detached affection, just like my mother used to. She told me her name was Grace, to which I replied, “well, that’s a good sign.”

The Kingdom Hall was my second home. Sometimes, when my parents’ screaming wouldn’t quiet, it was my first.

I’d run in. The smell of pine trees would greet me. Smiling faces surrounded me, kind hands reached out to me. I never wanted to leave.

Evening drains quickly on the day that Tevin leaves. I arrive home from working at the brewery to a letter from my grandmother in which she has folded a cut out copy of the Lord’s prayer. Though I read the letter only minutes ago and was thus informed, I can no longer remember from where she cut the blessing.

Waking up at 3am with the thought “I need to go to Divinity school” was quite surprising. It was a fairly humid early morning on May 20th. I stumbled out of bed to grab my laptop from my desk to see if I even had the option of enrolling for the fall. The deadline had been extended an extra 11 days. The spiritual side of my personality took this as a sign as I slowly guided my mouse down the page. I knew I wanted to stay in Nashville for the time being and I had no idea where I wanted to go with my life. Leaving the world of college athletics and entering into a period of spiritual reflection while working in a mind-body-soul shop lent me a return to my love of philosophical engagement.

In an age where minds are more open than any previous decade and equality is on the rise I expect these changes but I also expect that my choices be respected, even if they are not understood. Perhaps that is too much to ask, but I would hope in the year of 2015 our ideas about partnerships of any kind would be more accepting.