Weekends used to end early when I was a kid. Sunday mornings, mom would come down the stairs open my door and say the most dreaded phrase eve: “Time to go to church.” That meant the weekend was officially over. There were those rare mornings when she would let us skip mass- when that happened it was as if God was answering my prayers.

I come from a religiously mixed marriage. My mom is a Catholic and my dad is a golfer. As we were praying for world peace, my dad was praying not to three putt.

It creates a weird religious experience having one parent take you to church while the other is enjoying his Sunday morning. If you believe in Christianity then you have to believe in heaven and also in hell:

“Mommy, since daddy’s not in church, does that mean he’s going to hell?”

And my sweet little mother looked down at me and without blinking an eye said: