I’ve walked out of  Mass three times during my life. Once when I decided to check out a little Catholic Church (more like a mission) near where I lived. Unfortunately, the priest was unable to make it that morning, so a prayer service was held instead. After the gospel reading, a guy leading the service opened the floor to anyone who wanted to comment on the reading or anything else that was on their minds. Right away, I thought, big mistake! To make matters worse, there was a microphone. Never ask people what’s on their minds and then hand them a mic.

So I was forced to listen to a bunch of nonsense. Some people asked for seconds on the mic. Everyone wanted to comment on what everyone said. One woman spoke for twenty minutes about her vegetable garden. I kept waiting for her to make a point related to something significant, but it didn’t happen. Two people must have just come from a Twelve-Step Program, and still felt a burning desire to “share” their stories. Good stories they were too. I wanted to hear more, but I couldn’t concentrate because the vegetable-garden story had me stymied. Timing is everything.

I feared this “prayer service” might go on until the Second Coming. But walking out wasn’t easy since everyone sat on a bleacher-like structure, and the only exit was through the crowd and down squeaky steps to the front where the speaker stood. After two hours, I stuffed the guilt, hitched my purse over my shoulder, and left.

Another time, I was in church in an unfamiliar town. It was packed. Standing room only. The priest must have felt that with such a large audience, he had to give them their money’s worth on the homily. I don’t remember his homily, except that it was a long. Then he announced a special parish program that was in the making. He passed everyone a pamphlet—a long one. Twelve pages—small print. Then he proceeded to read the entire thing to the congregation. He stopped several times to explain the information in more detail. Sneaking out was easy this time because I was in the back, and the floor didn’t squeak.

I saved my best walk-out story for last. I was in my early twenties, living in Waco, and decided to attend Mass there rather than drive to St. Mary’s Church in West, my hometown. It was the early 70s, and the feminist movement was in full swing. I’d just attended my first Willie Nelson outdoor concert, which took place in Abbott, and saw (and smelled) things I’d never seen or smelled before. I was aghast, but everyone seemed happy, and okay—who am I to judge? God wants us to be happy, right? I’d also started visiting Austin as often as possible in anticipation of transferring to UT. So, you understand what was going on in my head: woman’s rights, Willie Nelson, and Austin, Texas. I was questioning everything, especially the teachings of the Catholic Church. I wanted to sleep in on Sunday mornings and miss Mass, but the mere thought of doing that brought on a tidal wave of guilt.

That priest didn’t realize I was in a vulnerable state. He didn’t know the religious fence I’d been riding was bucking like Gilly’s bull. He didn’t know I’d stopped wearing a bra (or maybe he did, because after the gospel, he moved to the front of the altar to be closer to the congregation). I swear he looked right at me. The subject of his homily: a Woman’s place is in the home.

I almost choked. Really? Did I hear that right?

I looked around, and no one seemed phased by this. I had hoped to hear a message encouraging me to continue going to church, not something that would have me running for my life.

The following Sunday, I slept in. I wasn’t struck by lightning. The earth didn’t swallow me up. That proverbial bus didn’t run me over. I felt pretty good.

Except for family weddings, baptisms, and funerals, it was ten years before I attended another Mass. Fortunately, things have changed since those days: Saint John Paul II preached that women should speak up, and speak out. Pope Francis believes love is love no matter who you’re in love with. Now when I’m in church and hear something I disagree with, instead of walking out, I start daydreaming. Sometimes about my next mystery; sometimes about what I’ll have for lunch. Once I wrote an entire short story in my head. It was about Jesus and his dog, Buddy, who was small enough to fit in the cusp of His ear. The priest probably wondered why I was chuckling.

Even though my hiatus lasted a decade, I didn’t feel guilty about it. But once a Catholic, always a Catholic, whether you attend church or not. I knew I’d be back one day. I’ll be thinking of you all next Sunday.