To pray or not to pray

               “Nna anyi no na elu igwe, otito diri aha gi. Ka ochichi gi bia, ka eme uche gi na uwa…” Those are the first few phrases of the “Our Father” prayer in my native Igbo language. It was also the first thing I was trained to say every morning by my VERY christian Grandmother, who I lived with in Nigeria. After reciting the prayer, I sang hymns and read my bible. Soon after, I was on my way to a 5 am mass service that was held a block away from my house. I hated that I, a young 7 year old, had to wake up so early every morning to say the same prayers in the same fashion. I wondered if God ever got tired of hearing our voices. And if He got tired of answering everyone’s prayers. And if He did, what did He do about it. I wouldn’t dare to ask my grandma those questions. I was afraid of a scolding or a smack upside the head. So I kept the questions to myself. My mind would then flood with scenarios of what could happen if someone could hear my thoughts. I’m not supposed to question anything, I might get caned, or worse, go to Hell. Then I knelt down and asked God for forgiveness, so I wouldn’t go to Hell. 

               I couldn’t go to Hell. I was a child. My grandma always told me that Jesus loves children, and He holds them close to Him. “Theirs is the kingdom of Heaven,” she said. I am supposed to be the perfect Holy child, or get as close to it as possible. I could do no wrong. I started to wonder if God would want people He loved to spend every waking minute worrying about whether or not they are living a perfect Holy life, pleasing Him. Someone who loves you should never put you in a place like Hell, even if you are not Holy. 

               My friends at school, my VERY christian school, were raised the same way I was. And they were the only people who I felt I could ask anything. But whenever I raised doubts about Christianity, they rebuked me. They said the teacher would flog me if she heard what I said. They said God wouldn’t be happy with me. They said I would go to Hell. I asked my questions hoping that maybe someone will answer, but everytime I did, I ended up disappointed. On those days, I would ask God for forgiveness and vow never to question His power again. A few weeks later, the same thing happens. I start to question. I get disappointed. I ask for forgiveness. I vow never  to do so again.

               With time, my doubts about the faith I was raised in grew more intense. I stopped reciting “Nna anyi no na elu igwe.” God isn’t even listening. It’s pointless, I thought to myself. I started to catch the attention of some other kids that took prayers very seriously. They started to isolate themselves from me. They didn’t want to be friends with a girl who didn’t care about prayer. They didn’t want to be friends with someone who might go to Hell.

                Being skeptical of a practice that everyone around me values so much made me feel like there was something wrong with me. I felt like I was an embarrassment to my grandma, my school, my friends, and God. It was like I was created to believe the opposite of what I should believe. I had to do something to stop feeling so bad about myself. I decided that it was in my best interest to suppress these feelings for the time being. Just pretend everything is fine.

               I guess one could say things went well after that decision, but it is something that still stirs an internal conflict, dare I say, a moral dilemma. I don’t know, maybe one day I’ll start praying again. Or maybe I’ll go to Hell.