I grew up in a Catholic family. We went to church on Sundays, prayed before bed, knew that Lent is not only about food, but also about the heart. Everything seemed right. Warm memories, the quiet voice of the organ, candles that you are afraid to blow on so as not to put out — because it is... sacred. And yet, no matter how hard the adults tried, at some point I realized: I stand in church not because I believe, but because it is necessary.

And then the real thing began. My personal path. It’s not that I suddenly said: “Now I will be an atheist!” No. It just became clear that I needed something alive, real, not learned from a prayer book, not hammered in “just in case”. I started asking questions. A lot. Sometimes questions that made adults cough in embarrassment and say: “You’re still little, you’ll understand later”.

But does faith come with your passport age?

When you’re fifteen, you read the Gospel for the first time not because you have to, but because it itches inside. You don’t understand why Christ was silent when He was judged. Why He forgave. Why He chose this path at all. And in this search, in this living misunderstanding, in disappointments and insights, faith finally becomes yours. Not your parents’. Not the church’s. But yours. The way you were able to accept it.

Now I know for sure that you can’t force faith on a child. You can introduce them to it. You can share, tell them, let them feel its smell, rhythm, depth. But as soon as you start forcing them, faith turns into a system of rules. And God is a strict overseer. And that's it. You don't believe. You obey.

I see some parents literally marching their children to church, like they're going to a parade. They sit them down next to them and hiss, "Sit still, don't fidget!" And I want to go up to them and say, "Give them some air. God is not about fear. He is about freedom. About choice. About trust."

You know, I'll never forget one boy. He was in our parish, about ten years old, with bright, sparkling eyes. We were singing at Christmas, and he looked at the stage as if he saw something magical. After the concert, he came up to me and asked, "Was Jesus really born in a barn? Didn't He have a home?" I answered honestly, "Yes, that's right. Because He chose to come to us not as a king, but as a friend." And this boy simply nodded. No "Amen," no "Thank God." He just understood. That's how faith is born - from wonder. Not from being told.

When I meet people who are searching, doubting, confused about themselves — I have great respect for them. Because faith always has a shadow of doubt. It's like looking into the ocean: you can't see the bottom, but you want to dive in. Maybe it's scary. Maybe it's cold. But you dive in. Because your heart tells you to. And not because someone shouts from behind, "Come on, march to the font!"

So we, adults, can wait. And believe in the choice, in the path. Even if this path first goes past the church.

Lana Banana