The Catholicism of my childhood was overshadowed by books and politics in my 20s. But speaking to survivors of the Grenfell Tower fire encouraged me to find solace and support at church
The first time I went to church as an adult, I had been up all night drinking in a friend’s living room. Tumbling home as the morning mist enveloped the common near my flat, almost nothing was visible but the church spire on one corner. Going to bed seemed a let down: I had finished a book on the bus and felt wired and awake. Instead, I crept into the church and sat at the back, intermittently burning myself on a hot radiator and feeling the effects of the unholy volume of wine I had drunk drift away. The bell rang, the congregation stood and a cloud of incense delivered the priest. The next hour passed in a haze of kneeling, chants and actions built into my muscle memory.
Growing up in south Wales in the 90s, religion had not been of great importance to my family. Catholicism was little more than a duty to baptise the babies and something you did to widen your school choices. It was a slight background hum that only grew louder for births, weddings and deaths.
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