A Beautiful Day

Inconceivable

I am a recovering Catholic.  I say recovering because, in retrospect, not many (if any) of my Catholic experiences have done much to inspire faith or hope or spirituality.  Try as I might, my whole life (save for a brief stint in second grade when I wanted more than ever to become a nun, like Sister Margaret, my makeup-wearing beehive-sporting guitar-toting loving happy teacher), I've never been moved by any of the trappings of the church's ritualistic and deeply imbedded focus on rules that seemed to punish your humanity.  I could never reconcile why God would make us only to want us to suffer.  It didn't seem to me that such a deity deserved worship, nevermind attention.  Everything I have ever read about Jesus shows him to be a loving, accepting, nonjudgmental kind of guy - why couldn't priests be like that?  Or nuns?  Even as a young child, the hyprocisy wasn't lost on me.  One day I asked a nun why there weren't any altar girls.  Her response wasn't kind nor could she come up with much of an explanation.  Instead she seethed anger over my arrogance in asking such a thing.  Clearly I didn't know my place.  

I'm not saying here that Catholic isn't for anyone; I'm not saying any organized religion is without flaws and problems. What I am saying is that my experience has made me numb.  It wasn't so much Catholic school that did me in as much as being branded a sinner once I decided to remarry.  To be told that my judgment in leaving an abusive drunk and choosing a loving man with which to have a family was in question and, if I wanted to become a practicing member once more, would need to pony up at least $1000.00 so that a TRIBUNAL (it's honestly called that) of unmarried men could determine whether or not I deserved forgiveness for this - well - IT DIDN'T SIT RIGHT WITH ME.  And still doesn't.  Probably because when it comes down to it I really don't believe in any of it.  And probably never have, though damn, have I tried.  

I see relatives and friends who enjoy the church.  They go every Sunday.  They read, pray, sing.  Their children attend catechism and they tell me what a great experience it is.  I am jealous of their faith - their ability to embrace the "mystery" and just trust what's put in front of them and find meaning in it.  Even those who go simply for reflection and the comfort of the routine -  I wish I could be like them, quietly practicing a faith which doesn't seem to trouble them at all.   I wish I could enjoy what was given to me - that I could be proud of it and be happy in just finding the good in all of it.  

When Grammy died, I took Smacky to the viewing -  not only did it make sense in a scheduling sort of way (the viewing was right before the funeral) but S needed to come and at the time it was cruel and unusual to leave the twins home with ONE person, nevermind add a third child to the mix.  So we took him. And here we all were, our family, our people, in this room he'd never seen before with flowers in it, and mommy's crying and LOOK!  In the middle of this room, Great-Grandma's sleeping!!  SSsshh!!   I left it at that, because a three year old shouldn't have to be burdened with the heaviness that is death. But at a later session with Dodder Cowan, he asked me if I had yet taught Smacky about God - if that, of course, was something we planned to do.  And no, I hadn't.  At all.  Because I have no idea how to present it to him, though I know I need to.  Or at least I feel I need to.  Providing a spiritual foundation for my children is important to me as a parent - and yet I have been so lax.  Lax because my heart isn't in to Sunday mass.  Lax because my husband pretty much thinks the Catholic church to be hysterical, and it would be a struggle to get him on board.  Lax because I'm still struggling with my spirituality.  Lax because I'm too tired to argue with indoctrinated and concerned grandparents about why our kids won't go to hell if they don't make their first holy communion and wear white and have a huge party afterward.  Lax because I'm so busy I seriously don't know how to make time to find a church more in keeping with my belief about what a church really should be: a community who gives back, bent on making this world a better place.  A community who strives to be more like Jesus (I say Jesus as an example, not necessarily him in particular, though you have to admit he was a pretty cool guy).  Who believes that your transgressions are a matter between you and God.  Who believes that celibacy can be really harmful to a human, especially one who is to be considered a leader.  Who believes in gender equality.  And that homosexuals aren't sinners.  And that this world is a crazy place and we all do our best, day by day to be good to our loved ones and ourselves and everyone else in this world and that church should be a place of guidance and reflection and not a system of rules and punishment.  

A few months ago, tired of my indecision with this, I made up my mind to just do the Catholic thing with our kids.  Heck, they were already baptized Catholic. I figured maybe if I force myself I'll eventually enjoy some epiphany and, at the very least, be giving my family a base from where to start.  I told myself that once S comes back from his trip, we'd start attending Sunday mass as a family.  S came back two Sundays ago.  We haven't gone yet. 

I'd been beating myself up about all this when I came upon THIS. 

Just how does one explain to your sons - your beautiful children - that they are somewhat "less" in the eyes of a community because of how they were conceived?   Are these people lunatics?  How dare they?  How DARE they?  I can't think of anything more immoral - issuing such a statement which in turn belittles the struggles of good people and the miracles that are their children.  It's alienating and asinine, especially coming from a band of men who look away when it comes to r@ping little innocents.

Don't get me started about the time I was on the news outside a cathedral telling the reporter that a particular cardinal should go to jail for allowing so many children to be abused on his watch.  He got away with it.  I think he's in Mexico now.  

I have finally got the push I needed.  I know where to go now and what to do.  S is on board.  We are happy about it.  And for once, clear.  Sad that it took so long.  

O Holy Night

I suppose we all cope with the loss of a loved one in very different ways. Since my Aunt's passing last month I have felt fundamentally different- as if I've changed in some very basic way. I don't know if it's the grief. If you've lost a close loved one and had a similar experience, would you let me know?

I've always adored Aunt Pat. We had a special little bond, her and me. Ever since I can remember I wanted to be like her- aside from her obvious outward beauty, she had a passion for life. She was always positive, always embracing the good and enjoying the moment. She was an avid gardener, a fantastic cook, a decorator who adored simple elegance. When you were at her house you were not only entertained, you were loved by food, by ambience, and by her positive energy. (Sigh, I miss her). She was always genuinely interested in people...what they were up to, what made them happy, what made them tick. She accepted everyone she met as family...all were graciously welcome in her home. Highly intelligent and intuitive, she always would make you think yet leave you feeling good about yourself. She was an incredibly special person.

In short, I kind of always thought of her as a kind of angel on earth. You know, if you believed in that sort of thing.

What I didn't realize was just how devoted she was to her faith. I knew she was involved in her local Baptist church but never to what extent. At her funeral I was surprised to learn just how devout she truly was and how important her religion was to her. She never came off as a "holy roller" nor pushed her spirituality on anyone- she was far too socially gracious for that. But as her pastor and close friends stood up to speak it became clear to me that her faith - and in particular her blind faith - her conscious choice to not question but just believe - was the driving force behind her energy, her optimism, her joie de vivre. So seriously did she practice her faith that she didn't talk the talk - she walked the walk. She lived it. If you knew her you'd know this was so true.

And as I'm at this funeral fighting the weeping sadness that's ready to overtake me I have the paradigm shift - the moment of clarity, if you will. I realize that most every woman I admire or look to as a mentor has that- that strong, unabashed, unapologetic spiritual foundation. These are women who emit elegant compassion and make no apologies for their confidence. They use their strength - both intellectual and spiritual -to embrace the moment, find joy in simple things and never forget their blessings. These women leave you and everything in the world far better than how they found it. These are the women I want to be.

Yet somehow, for most of my life I've regarded such faith/foundation as more for those on the lower end of the emotional IQ scale. I've thought people turned to God when they were weak or couldn't get it together, leaning on their religion as you would a crutch...kind of like people you see in AA who substitute their drinking with an addiction to God. That or feeling disgusted with a lot of Catholics I've seen - people practicing apathetically, going to church and murmering the prayers but leaving the building only to resume bitter resentful joyless lives. I really thought this...for a long time. I thought that because I could never intellectually make peace with the bible and this tenant and that belief that people who did were somehow inferior. I believed religion was made up of money-making enterprises created by clever men who tapped into our natural human fears and weaknesses.

A little cynical- ya think?

I'm kind of thinking now that I was so. very. very. wrong.

After Simon's christening and after the funeral, I'm feeling for sure that it's not about that existential spiritual angst crap of finding a religion that most closely ascribes to your belief system but rather about finding the good in what you already have and know.

And no, I'm not going all J*sus freak on you, be sure of that.

But I think it's time to give my Catholicism a shot. And I don't know what's happening to me, getting all soft all of a sudden, but I feel Catholic lately, and oddly, in a way, proud of it. Maybe it's got something to do with Simon's arrival and the love and happiness I feel with him. Maybe it's my way of staying connected to my aunt who I miss so much.

And lest you think I'm not getting strange enough on you, I actually have myself convinced that my aunt is in heaven looking after Simon. Strange as in the day she died I abruptly stopped obsessing over his breathing and development and what if he gets hurt (was that just grief shaking me out of my mindset? maybe, but I haven't returned to obsessing, which says something). I believe she wanted this to happen... that this shift in my thinking was purposeful on her part (and not just for me but for everyone she touched). I believe this with all my heart and am a little taken back by it because after all, that stuff is so silly, right? That's for those dumb people who believe in horoscopes and saints and well, angels.

Yeah. Angels. Can you imagine?

Every year at this time Aunt Pat would call me (continuing the ritual from my single and alone-in-Boston days) to make sure I had a place to go for the holidays and to make sure I knew I was always welcome at her house. She obviously hasn't called this year, and I miss talking with her. But there's also a little voice inside telling me that now it's my turn to become the angel...to start to become one of those graceful powerful women who love and profoundly change everyone around them for the better. My family could certainly use another one of those women, or at least someone who's trying their hardest to be one.

I'm pretty sure that voice is hers.

Peace on earth, good will, happy happy.
See you in 2006!