Belief.

I recently went to a funeral that was too soon.  I'll always find a reason for any death to be "too soon" but this truly was too soon.  I'm pained that this happened to one of my sweetest and dearest and warmest friends.  One of those friends that sort of blindsides you on a thursday afternoon.  The one that you passed here and there and think, "We have NOTHING in common" and than you're sitting in class talking about life and she's as deep and powerful and brilliant as anyone I would love to call "friend".  I'm already a very terrible funeral go-er.  I hate them and I think they're horrendous.  But this one was especially difficult because #1: it's that gem of a friend I'm talking about and #2: I've never had to witness what it looks like to have someone I love lose the same thing I lost.  My friend's mom's death has nothing to do with me, I never met her mother, in fact I didn't even know what she looked like.  But life and death makes a person think about life and death and naturally, I've been brewing in a hot cup of religion ever since.

I have to ask you now to stop worrying because I'm crossing that bridge into religion.  I'm not crossing that bridge.  Seriously.  I'm not.  There will be nothing political about the following paragraphs:

The funeral I went to was at St. Charles Bartholomew.  My mom used to run her tiny little legs up and down the sidewalk outside of this church when she was just a young girl and come to think of it, so did my friend's mom, whom I attended the funeral for.  I can picture my mom now with her jet black, stringy, thin hair and much too short bangs running to catch up to her older siblings with a school bag two times too big.  She was the youngest and the youngest always gets the "too big for you" hand-me-downs.  St. Charles was my mom's church where she was taught the ins and outs of Catholicism.  She went to school there too.  She was locked into closets by nuns, slapped across the wrist by rulers and even pulled the fire alarm to get out of her fifth grade speech.  The church is epic with the tall beautiful blue ceilings, the crown moldings that look meticulously carved, the pews that slant just enough to feel like you're reclining ever so slightly and the enormous steeple that when you stare up into you wonder who built it and how long it took.  It is breathtaking to sit under it's roof.  The pictures of my mom's wedding day in this church don't do the place justice.  I don't think any picture could. 

My parent's raised me Catholic.  I was baptized and confirmed under the dogma of Catholicism.  Looking back now, I'm not sure how much I believed of my following.  The things I were taught never quite made sense to me but to question what I was being taught as the truth never occurred to me.  Church was an every Sunday event and it was never an option of whether I could stay home in pajamas or not.  I followed my parents orders and held my mom's hand during the service, yawned, played silent games with Taylor next to me, yawned more, fell asleep on my dad's shoulder and asked multiple times if we could leave after the Eucharist (communion): the answer was always, "No and don't ask me again."  

In seventh grade I had a nun for a teacher.  She was magnificent.  I knew exactly how to get back on her good side if a bad grade proved I might not be in her good graces: bring an Almond Joy for her.  The best thing about this was she knew exactly my intentions when I showed up with that chocolate candy bar wrapped in blue and she was totally okay with it.  She was delightful and funny and told the most wonderful stories.  She was the one who told me every time I hear sirens I should pray.  I've never been one for prayer.  It's never made me feel full or relieved or satisfied so instead I would think.  Instead of pray I would think about the family who might have just lost their loved one in a car accident or in a drowning.  I would wonder how they were going to make it through their night, if they were going to be sitting in the hospital for 3 weeks or if they would be planning a funeral the next day.  And than I would get hopeful and think that maybe the ambulance was responding to something minor.  My teacher was also the teacher who told me every single snowflake is different and we should relate people to snowflakes because we all fall into the same pile of snow yet we are all different.  Yet I sat in that same classroom and learned about a religion that I was supposed to belong to and told about a belief that was right and true and naturally I got to thinking, "If someone else doesn't believe this religion thing is right and true than aren't I separating myself from the rest of the snowflakes?"  

I've witnessed firsthand what belief and faith can do for a soul.  My mom believed, more than I am comfortable with, that there was a God.  Her journals prove that every bit of her fiber was doused in spirituality and belief.  And I've also witnessed what a community that works together can do.  They can feed the hungry, build homes, move entire cities and stir up dirt.  A Higher Power is one of the greatest reasons Alcoholic's Anonymous works: take your addiction and hand it over to "someone" else (God, Allah, Buddha, a doorknob).  When you put the spirituality and community together you have a religion in the name of something.  There have been many wonderful things that have spawned from religion and there have been many awful things too.  Nope, I'm still not getting political.  I have just always wondered if people can do good together just for the sake of doing good and not in the name of anything higher or bigger than us.  

I lived in apartments my freshmen year of college and two of my roommates were Muslim, both of them from Malaysia.  They were two of the most gentle women I have met in my life.  They were intellectuals and intuitive and they were strong as tacks.  I watched people insult their religion and I heard tears from both of them as they comforted one another from the snickers outside our door.  They believed, with all of their heart, that their religion was right for them but I never once heard them tell me that what other people believed was wrong.  I watched in awe as they prayed and fasted and sang.  One night, I sat on the countertop in the kitchen while they made delicious food and listened to them talk about their religion.  Everything they said made sense to me and the passion they spoke with was infectious but I realized something that night: that I have never felt that passion for my own religion.  And another thing: I was okay with it.  I could not sit there and tell them, with all that fire in their eyes for their belief, that they were wrong.  

I stopped attending Church after that and started questioning my beliefs.  I started reading about Atheism and started dating a man (and father of our child) who fiercely believes that death is the end of life (period) and that when you die, you stare at the back of your eyelids and you feel and think nothing.  The soul does not do anything, in fact, I'm not sure a soul exists by his beliefs.  "So" I asked him one day "that would mean my mom is...nothing?"  "Yes" he said to me "your mom is nothing.  But you know what?  She lives in your stories."  Well that was sweet and maybe I could live with that but I tried it and I can't.  I found recently that I don't like Atheism for the same reason I don't like organized religion: it claims to be just as "better" as all those religions that claim they know the "truth."  I can't seem to win.  

The only church services I have been to in the last 8 years have been for weddings, funerals or baptisms.  Sometimes I sit and listen to the Bible readings and wonder why all the followers relate the Scripture to present day, sometimes I sit and think the story is beautiful but leave it at that and sometimes I'm angry because I believe in the goodness of people regardless of religious rules and regulations.  I have a dear friend who grew up behind me who is the epitome of what I believe to be a good Christian.  She's a treasure to me (another one of those friends).  She believes with all her heart in Christianity and when we have conversations about it and she knows exactly where I stand (and it's not anywhere where she stands) I never feel inferior.  She listens to me and nods her head and smiles and she believes this is what's right for me and Christianity is what's right for her.  I've paged through a book she created while in Discipleship Training School and felt the same awe I felt when I listened to my Muslim roommates speak about their religion.  These have been some of the few moments that I have never felt like I had to defend my beliefs.  

So I sat at St. Charles the other day and watched the ritual of my given religion with new eyes because one of my truest friends believes her God has a plan for her deceased mom and I believe her belief in that.  I listened to people saying the prayers of the rosary as their fingers played with each bead that signified a new Hail Mary and observed an incredibly old woman pull a rosary from a small leather bag and keep it pressed to her lips for minutes.  Just by observing this woman I could see that she truly believed in what she was praying for.  I watched people at the front door dip their fingertips into holy water and make the sign of the cross, they genuflected before taking their seat, we sat, stood and kneeled more times than I cared to count, they received the Eucharist and we offered each other a sign of peace.  I listened to the woman sing at the alter and I was captivated, not because I suddenly believed in religion for myself, but because her voice was magical.  All of these rituals have a long history of meaning and they feel right to those who practice them and they do it beautifully.  

I was a disaster after the funeral of my friend's mom.  My eyes filled with tears faster than I could wipe them away.  I selfishly left immediately after the funeral because I could not pull myself together for the life of me.  I was consumed by grief, something I have learned to live with since my own mom died, but having to watch my friend live what I've experienced killed me.  I went to the cemetery immediately following the funeral and cried harder at my mom and dad than I have since I was 18 and realized something while I drove home.  She (my mom) is who I have faith in and I believe exists even though I can no longer see her.  I feel the same way for my dad.  I'm not sure where they reside other than my heart because I don't believe in two separate places when we die.  I like the idea and I like the story of heaven and hell but to me and my beliefs, it's just not reasonable.  While I sat at the end of the funeral service and observed the family of my friend and listened to the prayer for her mom's safe arrival to heaven, I believed for them in what we were asking and hoping for.  I may not believe in religion (for myself) or the Jesus Christ my mom believed in or one single and all-knowing God but I did believe my mom was sitting right next to me with her arm around my shoulders across the back of the pew.  And I do believe she grabbed hold of my friend's mom's hand and said, "Sit back and relax - this new life is a breeze."