I am a cradle Catholic. I was baptized before I was old enough to realize why the priest was pouring cold water on my head. I have attended a Catholic school as long as I can remember. I have been to church more times in my mere fifteen years than I will have used the word “I” in this paragraph. I have taken as many years of religion classes as I have taken math classes. I have prayed before dinner at home every night with my family. I have known the meaning of the word “prodigal” before some kids my age could pronounce it. I have worn my Easter best to Mass, only to dirty it while hunting for eggs later. I have been baptized, confirmed, first communion-ed, first reconciliation-ed. I have known the religious significance of a candy cane since grade school. I am a cradle Catholic. I have questioned my faith, time and time again. I have wondered if there really was a man watching me from the clouds, and how he could love me after I cheated on that math test. I have cried to that man. I have felt hopeless. I have also been reassured. I have sung hymns with all my heart, even if I was just playing with my friends. I have come to pray on my own every night before bed. I have felt stupid for knowing so much about God. I have gone to Reconciliation what being prompted, because I have been lucky to have that ability. I have asked whether my religion was right or not, or if there is even a right religion. I have memorized Bible verses in order to defend my faith, and to get an A. I have watched my faith falter and then grow. I have been angry with my parents for making me so righteous. I have been thankful that my parents gave me faith for a backbone. I have come to know my God. I am a cradle Catholic.