Religion

 My parents weren't overly religious people. Mom was raised Jewish and Daddy raised a Christian. Mom was not bat mitzvahed and do not really know if Daddy went through any formal rights of passage.  But they both believed in God.

It was 1967, and my father had proposed to my mother.  They were to be wed in the summer after her graduation while he would be on a short leave back in the states. In order for her to be able to go with him to his next post in Germany, they would need to be married.

At that time, this was problematic.  Dad was not Jewish.  There was not time to convert and mom, she is a stubborn gal, refused to force this in order to be married in the synagogue.  Mom was not a Christian and was not going to convert.  I am guessing my Gram and PopPop would have lost their minds to that.  So there was no church where they could be married.  And, they could not locate any religious officiant who would marry them outside of the the accompanying structures simply because, they did not match, religiously.

Eventually, they had a garden wedding at my great aunt's with a Justice of the Peace that the aunts had located who was agreeable to wed them.

This, according to my mom, soured her to organized religion, but maybe there was more to it.  The decision was made, that when they would have children, neither religion would be forced.  Information would be provided.  God would be known.  And the children would decide when they were ready to do so. I ended up being their only child, so, I was to decide when I believed I was ready to do so.

I said my prayers every night.  Storms that scared me were explained as God bowling with my grandfather who had died when I was six months old, never an angry God.  Rain could be tears of sadness or joy from God and his angels. And while there was no formalization of religion within our home, God, heaven, and being a good person was present.

The only times I ever went to synagogue was when my cousins had a wedding or a bar mitzvah.  The only time I prayed any Hebrew prayers were when we visited my Gram in Florida and she would share. And the only time I lit a menorah was once I had my own children and wanted to teach them of their family history. My mom, for whatever her reasons beyond her desires for her wedding, was not what you would call, practicing. It was when her father died, and eventually her mother, that she began lighting candles for them as practiced within Judaism, "out of respect" of her parents. 

Dad worked.  A LOT.  But on holidays he was off and on those days, like Easter and Christmas, he would take me to church.  There was a little Methodist church down the road, the same place where I met for Brownies and eventually Girl Scouts.  I had friends who went there regularly and even had to go to some kinds of classes one night a week. And while at the time, I did not envy them and all the time they had to spend doing church stuff, there was something magical that I would see within my father's eyes during those services that we would attend.  He smiled more and knew exactly what to do while I fumbled trying to follow along.

And while religion wasn't at the forefront of our daily life, I was permitted to explore other religions and ask as many questions as I liked.

When we moved to the country, I became quick friends with a girl up the street.  Her family belonged to the local Catholic church and were very active.  In order to spend the night at her house on a Saturday, one must be prepared to attend church with the family on Sunday. Seemed like an easy enough request.  SO I would join them.

In the beginning, on those weekends that I began to join them, it was very different than the little church I had attended intermittently with Daddy.  I had a hard time following along, but my friend and her family never made a big deal that I was clueless to their practices.  They would help me and encourage me to just follow along.

My friend and her sister attended CCD and had friends that I did not know.  They seemed to really enjoy it.  Now and again I was permitted to join them for the youth events and they were not anything like church.  I was even permitted to join the youth group which was tons of fun, even though I was not a member of the church.

We had a sock hop, played all sorts of games, and even went to the beach for an entire week.  These are the only things I can recall, but I really enjoyed it.

After we moved away, my sophomore year, that is when my father fell ill.  I could not fathom why God would let this happen to him.  A good man who worked so hard for his family, prayed to Him, and lived so that he could one day find himself accepted into heaven.  My father knew that one day he would see his parents again.  So how could this happen?

I prayed all the time but he never went back to being the man I knew.  I believed we were living in on Hell on Earth.  But I did not give up on God.

On occasion, I attended church with my aunt or a friend. And I was adamant that I be married in a church, in front of God. My first born HAD to be Christened.  Maybe that would help save him from some of the terrible things I had experienced in life- I had never been christened.  Not totally rational but it is what it is.

I did not ever really embrace any one church or declare a specific religion although I was always seeking.  I knew I believed in God and pretty sure I believed in Jesus, so Judaism seemed out.  In one religion, I was unable to be my Godmother to one of my best friend's children because I had never been baptized, so that one was out.  I did not like the idea of exclusion because I was being allowed to choose, and I was still not ready to choose.

It was not until after my father died, that I felt called to stop letting others deter me from my quest or simply making excuses and rationalizing that I would check out another church another day- which did not happen.

I realized, with the death of my father, that I was afraid to go looking by myself.  I was afraid that I would find a place that I liked but they would not want me, like the church that would not let me be a Godmother.  I was afraid that deep down, I was not worthy of being accepted.

My seester from another mother, and another father- we are both only children and have chosen to be family- she would encourage me regularly to just go.  Check it out.  "You have been searching for as long as I have known you."  And she was right.

All of the excuses and fears and things from my past were anchoring me down to a long ago sunken ship.  And while I was physically free of the entrapments of my past, I was still not mentally there.

So I started slow.  Sunrise service here. An early traditional service there.  Then a contemporary service.  And the first Christmas without my father and without the best friend who had wanted me to be a part of her child's life, I attended a Blue Christmas service.  With Christmas having always been the most favorite holiday since I was a young girl, this year it just did not feel the same. This year I was still in mourning. And this year, a woman that I used to teach with posted that her church was having this special service for people who were struggling because "Christmas can be difficult for some" people who are grieving and missing someone in heaven.

That was me!  

With a gut rolling full of nerves, sweaty hands and a very anxious state of mind, I went.  I had been to this church.  The best friend I had lost was even married here many years ago when her church would not marry she and her fiance- that is another story.

And then the pastor began. And while I sobbed, I was calm.  I was free. I felt at peace. And I was ready to celebrate Christmas, eventually.

I won't go into the details of the service, but the pastor was speaking directly to me.  I swore he was.  He knew my pain and exactly what to say.  It was not long before I started going to hear him on Sundays.

Soon, I was in his office asking to be baptized.  I had found a place where I belonged even though I still did not really know anyone.  I was not hanging out at church.  But I felt like that is where I belonged. It was where I wanted to be on Sunday mornings.

I had finally decided.

There is no witty moral here.  No giant reflection.  But it is funny, as pointed out by my seester, that the church that I found was the last church that I had attended with my dad.  I guess in a way, being there made me feel closer to him after he was gone.  There was comfort.  Being there helped me move beyond my anger with what happened to him in my teenage years.  There was a peace. And being there helped me fully understand that I was no longer the girl I once was. The one who had made so many poor decisions in her life. There was acceptance.

From that Palm Sunday of my baptism on, I was able to start mentally and spiritually seperating myself from that long ago sunken ship.  The ship that I had physically left behind years before.  I was ready to become whole, mind, body, and soul.

Today I do not attend that church regularly.  My spirit is whole.  My belief steadfast. But I am whole. And I am happier today with myself and my life than I think I have ever been in my life.  So for that, I am so very thankful that I finally decided to decide.