In the wake of the horrific Pennsylvania Grand Jury report detailing the sexual abuse of over 1,000 children by more than 300 Catholic clergy in our state, my Facebook feed lit up. Friends were outraged, mortified, saddened, shocked. In their dismay, several friends posed the question of how I can still be a Catholic. How can I seemingly condone the behavior of the Catholic Church by continuing to attend Mass on Sunday mornings? How can I fund the corrupt and criminal behavior of these low-life pedophile priests with my fundraising efforts? Why would I defile my children by sending them to a Catholic school where such abuse has occurred? Doesn't that make me an enabler, equally as culpable? It's a hurtful stance, like telling the mother of a school shooter that she may as well have pulled the trigger herself. Or it's like holding all of the American populace up to scrutiny for the acts of our elected officials who have, over the decades, cheated, lied, stolen, raped, and performed any of a vast array of illegal activities, and who, after all, we the people willingly voted into office. How can I still be a Catholic? Because my faith is not rooted in men. It's rooted in God. It's rooted in my belief in Jesus Christ and the Immaculate Conception, in the Holy Spirit, in the consecration and the resurrection. My faith has nothing to do with the people who run the church, just as my patriotism has nothing to do with the people elected to run this country. I am able to separate the organization from the doctrine, the leadership from the congregation, the sins of the leaders from my own salvation. How can I still be a Catholic? Because Catholicism has been a cornerstone of my life from birth. My grandparents, all Eastern European immigrants, brought their Catholic faith with them when they had little else. My grandfather, devoted to the Blessed Mother for all of his 97 years, was a pillar of the Croatian Catholic Church that served our town for decades. We helped to clean that church as children—never running, never messing around, always reverent because that was God's house. My church is God's house. Like in all of our houses, not everything that happens there is pretty. Not all of our family members are people we would choose to associate with given the option. Not every action is good and wholesome and pure. Few of us would opt to have cameras running in our homes, capturing our every move every day for everyone to see. God's house, unfortunately, is no different. There is no question that priests behaved monstrously, and the fact that their behavior was hidden by church leadership rather than punished is more monstrous still. Those individuals need to face justice. I, like many others, hope that justice is swift and decisive—both for those who did the unspeakable and those who hid it. We—the faithful of the Catholic Church—did not commit these crimes. But neither did we fight to drag them out into the open. Our church leadership failed us, yes, but we as a church body failed, too. We should have been more vigilant. We should have been more observant. We should have spurned our role as passive sheep and instead confronted head-on the wolves cleverly disguised as shepherds. It's too late for the victims described in the report (and countless unnamed others), but it's not too late for our children today. I want to be a part of a revolution in the Catholic Church that champions that transformation. How can I still be a Catholic? Because I believe in the people of the Catholic Church. The pierogi-pinching, paczki-frying, stuffed-cabbage-rolling ladies in the church hall. The members of the St. Vincent de Paul Society and the Ladies of Charity who selflessly deliver much needed help to those less fortunate. The choir directors and musicians who lift their congregations in song, bringing them ever closer to God. The Catholic school teachers who dedicate themselves tirelessly to providing a loving, faith-based education to children growing up in a world largely devoid of faith. I believe in the truly good priests who honestly and sincerely strive to lead their trusted flock to God, and do so with a smile, an inspirational homily, a prayer over a sick family member, a sacrament lovingly bestowed upon the faithful. They do exist, and I'm grateful to know them. And I believe in redemption. I believe that the Catholic Church, properly guided, can commit itself to change—serious, earth-shaking reform—and, as a result, can redeem itself. It can never make whole those who have been wounded, but it can become the beacon of light and salvation Jesus meant it to be from the beginning. How can I still be a Catholic? Because every priest is not a pedophile any more than every gun owner is a mass shooter. Because the church body is greater than the sum of its parts. Because my faith in God transcends my faith in the men who run the organization created in his name.

This aspiring novelist, writing enthusiast and food blogger was born on July 16, 1968, in Flint Michigan. Her musical talents began at a very young age. She began singing in church at the age of 7 and had the violin mastered by the age of twelve. Then, before she knew it, she was whisked away with her family, to sunny Florida to live. She was a middle child who grew up and spent her teenage years on the boardwalk of Daytona Beach. She attended a private Christian academy where she was active in cheerleading, dancing, journalism, and swimming. After high school, she decided her horizons needed broadening. She attended college in Michigan and obtained her degree with a major in Business. Then she got a job and wore black pumps to work every day. She had lunch with the girls, drank coffee every day, wore suits to work, and treated herself to manicures on a monthly basis. She became a top seller in lead sales in her division and overall ranked #13 in the United States as the top seller in her field. She was given a bonus, a promotion, and a lovely spa package. She was managing to raise four children as a full- time mom. Her children were all teenagers by this time. She was working many hours overtime, parent-teacher meetings, homework, school plays, science projects, and after-school activities. She was that one woman trying to achieve it all and trying not to allow her kids to feel left behind. One morning, she woke up for work and found her thirteen-year-old son half dead, slumped over on the living-room sofa. She had him rushed to the emergency room. It turned out that he happened to be sick and needed hospitalization for several months. He would need after-care treatment once he returned home. After very little thought about her decision, while her son was in intensive care, she went to her work and turned in her keys and resigned. She felt deep in her heart that her son needed her. She belonged at home with her son. Financially they were fine. She had her savings, 401K, and bonuses she managed to save. Her son remained her only concern. A year passes by, and her son became strong and healthy. They all started going to their local church not far from their home. She became a Sunday School teacher. She also started singing in the adult choir and played her violin. She began teaching at a girl's club in the church and she also taught at the Christian camp every summer. She was scheduled to sing a solo one night. She waited to be called up to the stage. Once announced to the stage, she briefly told her testimony. She glanced around the room and noticed people whispered to one another. They pointed at her. It made her feel awkward, but she continued with her song. They graciously applauded and she took her seat. After she had taken her seat, she felt someone rub her shoulder, and she turned around. Nobody was there. Then, something caught the corner of her eye. Laying draped across her shoulder. She gasped. Her hairpiece that was attached to her ponytail had fallen off. It had fallen across her shoulder. Her face started to turn beet red, and she started to sink down into her seat. She could see the people that sat around her with their pitiful smiles, It made her feel more embarrassed. She had to find her escape route immediately. She excused herself. She took her children and herself at home. She didn't return back to church for a couple weeks. Unexpectedly, she met and fell in love with a southern gentleman. He lived in Alabama. Now she lives in the country in Northern Michigan. Her days are spent working in the garden, planting flowers, cleaning the dirt out from under her fingernails and making gravy. They have a home that they purchased and are fixing up. They are renting out the guest house and are in the process of painting and redecorating. It is a chore but the process has been refreshing. It took a while for her to adjust to being without her children. It was the five of them for so long. She went through empty nest syndrome. She even cried and went through depression for a short time. However, she found writing as a way to escape. She would journal and also write in her food blog. She would also find refuge in her garden. I'm sure if her adolescent self could see her now she would cringe at how she traded in her idea of becoming an unmarried, without children, fashion designer in Paris, to a Business degree achiever, writing her first novel, completing an E-Book called “Comfort Foods for the Soul,” and falling in love with a better life. A life full of possibilities, a life much better for her.