Many people have unique praying spots. One place could be a memorial. Another could be a shrine. Mine is St. Patrick's Church on Central Avenue in Albany.
St. Patrick's is the most important holy place to me. I have been going there since I was a newborn baby. I was baptized and had my First Communion there. It is where I received my Confirmation.
As you walk into St. Patrick's on Sunday morning, you can't help but embrace the welcoming feeling. Everyone knows each other. Almost immediately, everyone is accepted. You can say we are all one big happy family. Everyone is relaxed and comfortable with everyone else.
Like me, most of the parishioners have been going there a long time, so people are more open to praying and disclosing feelings to others.
When I was younger, my parents always took me to church. Unlike other children, most of the time I went willingly because I enjoy church. By the time I was 11 years old, I was already in the church choir, an altar server and a youth group member.
When I came to Sunday School, I thought I knew everything about the Catholic religion. Soon, I found out I did not know as much as I thought I did. The Sunday school class taught me why and how we pray. It gave me a better understanding of why Jesus died on the cross.
I also realized God is not just a ruler. God is a friend who gives a helping hand when you are sad, lonely or angry.
Almost four years ago, my life underwent a major transformation. One day, I received the tumultuous news that my family and I would no longer be residing in my home -- the home I grew up in; the home where my childhood experiences were cherished. It affected my family greatly.
Learning why was even more devastating. Since both my parents are disabled, neither of them is able to work. We were known as "the garbage picker's kids." Because of this, my brother, sister and I were badly teased at school. Most of the time, we smelled, too.
One day, my mother received a letter saying we had been cut off from welfare. Even though my mother has short-term memory problems and is a slow learner, she courageously went out and trained for several different jobs.
After two or three long months of searching, she finally was employed at Wal-mart near Crossgates Mall.
Finally, it all just became too much for my mother to handle. She had a freshman in high school, a son in the eighth grade and me in the fifth grade. She and all her relatives met and decided that we would move in with our grandmother.
It was very dramatic and painful the day my mother, sister, brother and I were told that my father would most likely be in a nursing home for the rest of his life. It was a shock to us all, but deep down, we already knew it was only a matter of time.
Over this period of time, I didn't feel we had a home. My home had been taken from me. My grandmother's house was comfortable and had a loving environment, but it wasn't my home.
At this point in time, we had not been to St. Patrick's in about a month. Instantly when I walked into the church, my friends consoled me like none of the others could. It was difficult and a trying time, but thanks to the parishioners of St. Patrick's, we were able to overcome.
Just like Dorothy from "The Wizard of Oz," I found out that there is really no place like home; and for me, home is St. Patrick's.
(Dawn Jarvis is a 14-year-old student at St. Casimir's School in Albany. Her parish is St. Patrick's. She is a winner of this year's teen essay contest, sponsored by The Evangelist. Teens were asked to describe their favorite place to pray. Five winners, selected from the hundreds of entries, appear in this special teen issue.)