I think of my parents often. In the shower this morning I was having a conversation with my mom, talking things over with her. She passed away in April 2001, so the best I can do is try to imagine what she would say. I was very, very close to my mother and father and still am very close to them. Their answers that form in my mind are part what I want to hear and part what I do believe they would say to me. We are so much a part of our parents, our childhood and young adult years. I am very much my parents, yet I am totally myself. So it seems very natural when I ponder where I am, what I'm searching for that I should also mull over in my mind my parents' stories.

My mom had a rather sad, depressing, interesting life. That her family was dysfunctional would be an understatement. Her grandparents, George and Jane, came to America from England, met here in this country, married and at some point traveled to Utah with a Mormon wagon train. That they joined the Mormon church I think is a given since they lived there for a number of years and several of their children were born in Utah. Also, Jane's brother had become involved with Mormon missionaries in England and come to America because of them. Well, the story goes that George was being pressured to take a second wife, which he didn't want or his wife didn't want or something, and they abruptly pulled up stakes and moved to Idaho. They left with another family deserting their homes in the middle of the night in order to leave undetected. This story came to my mother from the oldest daughter of Geo. and Jane who was a young girl at the time. They settled in Idaho where my grandmother, Matilda, was born, number 8 out of 9 children.

There's nothing that leads me to believe that they attended any church during this time. However, at some point my grandmother was baptized in the Reorganized LDS Church although I don't think she ever attended. The oldest daughter married a French Catholic and converted, and shortly after that Geo. and Jane followed along and joined the Catholic Church. At some point my grandmother had my mother baptized Catholic. And that's how my mother became Catholic.

My mother's father was not one for organized religion of any kind. He was raised Presbyterian and left home when 16 or 17 because of his mother pressuring him to become a minister. What he had to say about my mother being baptized I have no idea. Actually, I don't think he had much to say about anything as my grandmother ran everything making his life hell. My mother went to the Catholic school here until her dad died when she was 12. She never went back after that, and her life changed for the worse in many ways. My grandmother was mentally unstable and my mom's life was very, very difficult. I know my grandmother was involved in spiritualism of some type and for a while my mom went to a Seventh Day Adventist school. What a combination. I honestly don't think my mom had been in Catholic church from the time she left the Catholic school until she met my dad when she was 28. Her upbringing wasn't particularly religious, definitely not Catholic; actually it was rather a hodge podge.

My dad did not come from a religious family, either. I don't know if his father ever attended church, but his mother might have attended the Methodist church occasionally. He grew up on a farm, went to public schools and had a very normal life. Religion just wasn't part of it. They weren't anti religious, just indifferent. Neither of my paternal grandparent's funerals was held in a church.

My dad moved to Chicago in the early 40's, and there he made friends with several Bohemian and Polish kids. (He always referred to his friends as kids.) Of course, they were Catholic, and this would have been his first introduction to Catholicism. He often told me how they impressed him with their sincerity. I'm guessing he might have attended Mass with them on occasion, but he did have one experience while in Chicago that touch him spiritually. It was Christmas Eve and he was feeling quite homesick. He had gone out to eat by himself and while walking home (it was safe to walk in downtown Chicago at night then???) he passed a Catholic Church and felt a strong urging to go inside. He went in, sat down in a back pew and just stayed. For a couple hours. He said he had never felt so peaceful before; that he felt he had found his home. He stayed for Mass and then went home.

He didn't start instruction until 1950 when he moved back to Idaho and was baptized that year. He had an aunt by marriage that was Catholic who played a large part in his conversion. Then he met my mom, and in 1953 they married. Because my grandmother was causing so many problems for them, they took off one Friday night for Winemucca and were married by the justice of peace about 1:00 AM. My mom always said that it was very important to my dad that their marriage be blessed in the church. I took it that she was okay with the Nevada marriage, but she was happy to have the marriage blessed in the Catholic church for my dad. So three months later they had a small ceremony in the Church. Coincidentally, the priest that married them also married Tim and me.

I don't think they attended Mass regularly when they were first married. In fact, of the friends they had back then none of them were Catholic. They were married 7 years before I was born, and I wasn't baptized until I was 3. If they were going to church regularly, I think I would have been baptized before that. As far as I can remember we always attended church except for a couple years when I was young. Probably around this time some of the changes of Vatican II had started to take root here, and they left my dad feeling rather lost. He had joined the church in 1950 before Vatican II, and then a little over a decade later, things started to change. Our Mormon neighbors decided to jump at the chance and had the missionaries at our door in no time flat. I remember going to the Mormon church a few times, but the only result of that was my dad quickly becoming convinced that he would never be a Mormon. We went back to the Catholic church and there we stayed.

I also thought we were fairly religious. We went to Mass on Sundays and Holy Days, my sister and I attended Catholic schools (with a few public school breaks thrown in), we had Catholic papers in the house, catechisms, theological books, etc. We discussed religion at the table; sometimes we argued religion at the table. My dad was a reader and thinker so consequently he was a very well catechized Catholic. But as I said, he was a thinker. He didn't just take whatever the priest said during his homily on Sunday or what the Vatican said at face value. Remember, he wasn't raised Catholic or in any church at all so he didn't have grounding in being absolutely obedient to the church. When I was older he would discuss certain teaching that he didn't agree with, but he was a Catholic until the day he died.

Now my mom on the other hand wasn't religious at all, but she was very spiritual. Yes, there is a huge difference as I've come to know. She prayed, especially novenas and rosaries. She loved the Bl. Mother. But she was particularly Catholic - other than the rosary and Mary. She could have been Anglican, Methodist, something like that. The only thing she could never be was a born again fundamentalist. Church teachings just didn't mean much to her. She followed her own conscience, and could never understand when dad and I would get distraught over something Fr. said at Mass or something we read. Actually, for dad and me, I think it was more the argument than any deep seated belief that drove us. My mom found God in her family. Her spirituality was her family. Her purpose on earth was to love her family. Dogma, doctrine, teachings she didn't know, but she loved her family.

Towards the end, before mom died, I remember talking to dad and him saying, "Oh, your mom just wanted to take a drive in the country and eat lunch somewhere so we didn't make it to Mass." This was during my 'on-fire' time, and I would be so upset with him. I would tell him he couldn't just miss Mass like that, it was a mortal sin. I was appalled. He would always say something like, "You know Janet, your mom is failing. She doesn't have much longer. It makes her so happy to take Sunday drives and enjoy our time together. She didn't feel like going to Mass, and I want to spend this time with her." And of course I said something like, "Feelings don't have anything to do with it; or why didn't you go Saturday night," or something equal to that. And he would say something like, "The older you get, you tend to see things differently, not so black and white." And I would say, "I'll never do that." You know: never say never.

Dad usually always made it to Mass after mom died. I do remember him saying that he never went to confession any more. He just didn't know what to say. By that time, my 'never' had been fading. I told him I was sure that he was fine with God. One of the last conversation with him about religion he said, "I believe in God." That was about it.

I've never believed that I chose my parents. I'm more of the 'it just happens' type. But had I been able to choose parents, I couldn't have done any better. No woman ever had more loving, dedicated, honest, kind, caring friends than I did. Those friends were my parents. I miss them terribly. I want to believe they're on this journey with me. Sometimes I feel them; sometimes I don't. Sometimes I feel them right next to me; sometimes I feel incredibly alone. Lately, I've been feeling very alone. So I create conversations with them and try to hear their voices. Their voices have been faint lately, but I choose to believe they're still very involved with me. On a different level, but still intimately involved. Otherwise, this whole life is a damn crap shoot.