Good Friday Ponderings

I shouldn't be here; I should be doing dishes or folding laundry, but I wanted to get a few thoughts down first. (Plus, my dear hubby is outside pruning, chipping and shredding and all that spring clean-up that is necessary before we start gardening.)

First, I absolutely should proofread what I write. I'm embarrassed by my errors. However, my idea was to write what I'm thinking down quickly, without questioning or analyzing it first, and then to not change anything so when I go back to read, it's original - hopefully. But when I do go back and read, I want to change what I wrote. More thoughts.

This entire Lent has been a fizzle. In fact, the Lents of the last 7 years have been big fizzles. The last three years, I haven't even tried to give anything up; I have tried to do more though. Little things. Smiling at grocery store clerks - especially at Walmart - strangers in the store or on the street. I fail more often than not, but I can actually say I've been more successful with each ensuing year. I'm certainly not opposed to 'giving up' especially considering American consumerism. And I do that. I've been going through closets, cupboards and just this week gave a huge bag to goodwill. Today, I'm starting another one. I'm so quick to notice the excess in others, and since I'm working on being simpler and smaller, I tend to put myself above others. Then I look at my house, and I am ashamed. I might not drive a Hummer, have a 4,000 sq. ft. house with 4 car garage, an RV and boat, but nonetheless, I have so much more than necessary. So Lent is a time when I will get more scrupulous about getting rid of what I don't need.

The part of 'giving up' that I don't get into anymore is looking for ways to actually make my life harder, more uncomfortable, the suffering that is difficult. I used to give up any myriad of things: coffee, tea (ouch!), bagels and bread, sweets (not a big deal), candy (no big deal at all), television, reading for enjoyment, movies, internet plus the taking on of extra works. I think they used to be called mortifications. Getting up at 4 AM instead of 5:30 AM, adding in extra prayers, more spiritual reading, praying on my knees instead of my comfy chair (that didn't last long), doing extra chores that I especially detest. I knew a few moms that gave up eating dinner, only eating the leftovers of their children. I never did that as I get light headed and generally feel unwell if I don't eat regularly. I even knew some couple that gave up sex for Lent. Holy cow. I knew a mom that made her way around the Station of the Cross on her knees. I used to wonder if they wore sackcloth and beat themselves, too.

I just don't get the point of it, I guess. I like doing things that make me feel good. Driving my '96 Saturn and getting 33 mpg makes me feel good. Trying to buy local makes me feel good. Giving away extra clothes and appliances makes me feel good. Smiling at people makes me feel good. Trying to be green and greener, loving the earth, and being simple makes me feel good. Plus, I believe in my heart of hearts, that it's good for everyone. I'm not fool enough to think that I alone can change much of anything, but I feel good about trying and improving in doing my very small part.

Giving up coffee and tea, books and movies makes me grumpy and generally not feeling good. Going out of my way to find extra household chores that might not even necessarily need to be done, but makes me down right grouchy. And I wouldn't even entertain giving up sex. I mean, after all, I'm getting older and my time is growing shorter. And who am I helping by giving these up. I know, the poor souls in purgatory. God will take those suffering and do good with them. Funny, a God that needs my sufferings. I know, God doesn't need my sufferings. It me showing how much I love God that I'm willing to offer up and unite my sufferings with Christ on the cross. Well, that another whole post.

So, am I hedonistic? I give up what makes me feel good. I don't give up that which doesn't make me feel good. Yeah, sounds hedonistic.

Yesterday was Holy Thursday. And it was glorious day. The sun was shining in all her glory, the sky was blue. The air had a chill, but with a sweater you were fine. We went upstairs, opened the windows to let all the old, stale, frustrated energy out. The twins and I worked in their room all afternoon, and it looks fairly decent now. Abra cleaned her room by herself. I lighted a new candle. Then I went outside to the orchard and sat under the almond tree with a book. After a while I got up and went around to each fruit tree, praying for a productive spring, admiring the small buds that are just waiting to burst open. About that time Tim came home. We had a small dinner and watched Danny Deckchair. I love that movie.

In the past I always made certain to go to Mass on Holy Thursday. The stripping of the altar was always so poignant. The empty tabernacle. What would we have without Christ. Bareness. Nothing. No salvation, no hope. Lost souls unable to do anything for themselves. But yesterday I hardly thought about it being Holy Thursday. I knew it was, but just didn't spend much time with that. It felt like a good day. I felt good.

Tim always takes Good Friday off. He usually works outside in the yard. We always joke that Good Friday is usually grey, dark, dismal. Actually today is like yesterday. Chilly and a slight wind, but bright and alive. As I said, he's outside. Right where he belongs. That man never belonged in an office. He's working - physical work - but for him I don't think he ever looks at it that way. He took me out for breakfast - our one big meal today. We shared a vegetarian omelette. Stopped by a greenhouse on the way home. And here I am. We won't be going to church tonight either. The last time I went on Good Friday they had some women from the parish in the part of the apostles while the priest washed their feet. There was an uproar from some because they had women portraying apostles. By that time I was getting filled up and burned out on all the petty little arguments. I secretly suspected that if Jesus were here today he would have women apostles, but I didn't dare voice that opinion. Anyway, Good Friday will be spent at home, working around the house. I think I'm going to go outside and pull some weeds when I'm done here.

Tomorrow will be more of the same. If I'm feeling up to it, I will take Abra to the vigil Mass tomorrow night. Depending on the number being baptized, it can last quite a while, and I turn into a pumpkin around 10 PM. But if I don't go tomorrow night, Tim will want to go to 7 AM Mass on Sunday which might be okay. The rest of Sunday will be spent hunting Easter eggs, re-hiding them and hunting again, playing and weather permitting, a picnic in our backyard. We always spend Easter outside.

I'm stopping for now. Things I need to do, and things I want to do are waiting.

I just returned from the dentist with a numb mouth and tongue; they feel five times their normal size. The pasta salad I was looking forward to isn't tasting right, so I thought I'd type for a few minutes while the girls are otherwise occupied.

I'm a romantic. I romanticize things. I dream about living in a little cottage (could be Ireland, maybe England), surrounded by my gardens, a few sheep, goats and chickens. Life is simple. I grow my own food, I have no need for fancy gadgets or clothes. I have my books. The hearth is in the center of the house, and my tea kettle is always ready. Here in this place I can ignore Iraq, terrorism, race relations, CEO's with $40 million salaries and just focus on the good. My husband would do well here, too. He was not cut out for this fast paced life in the consumeristic society; we call him 'Pa Ingalls'. He could dig in the dirt, care for the animals and have his solitary time he so desperately needs. I can picture this. I swear I can even taste and smell it. The vision is that vivid. But then I open my eyes, and here I sit with a fat lip, a pain in my jaw, health insurance issues, job insecurity (at the age of 50 in my husband's case), taxes plus everything else. That old voice starts to creep in saying something like, "The Lord never promised you happiness here on earth." But now I'm telling it to shut up and go away. I'm not listening to it as much.

When I was about 19 or so I decided I wanted to be a nun. I think it had a lot to do with In This House of Brede. I would live in a convent in the country, I would till the ground, I would eat simple meals, and I would have my books. All of them. Until my dad pointed out that I might not be able to take all my books (in the 100's). In his day nuns renounced those material possessions. Renounce books. That stopped me in my tracks. Then when I was 21 I met Tim. It didn't take long to acknowledge that the celibate life wasn't for me. And I never looked back.

Of course I romanticized the religious life just as I romanticized the married life. All in all though, the married life has been good. I'm fortunate. Ups and downs are inevitable when you've got a male and female living together. We are different, and isn't that the beauty of it. I've never believed in soul mates. The idea that there's one person out there who is my soul mate is not reasonable to me. How in the world could I find him? But, you know, over the years Tim has become my soul mate. We've grown into it. I have had friends in bad marriages; they truly were miserable. Some divorced, some would not consider divorce and tried to make the best of it, but they're not content or happy. I don't know the answer. But it does make me wonder how Tim and I came together. Was it coincidence? Was it prayer? Just simple luck - in the right place at the right time? I don't know the answer but the romantic side of me likes to think it was prayer and a connecting energy that brought us together.

Where was I going with this? Oh, how I romanticize things. Well, the religious life was out. Marriage was in. I needed to find my spot, my spiritual spot. I've always felt this need to be centered spiritually. I need to feel peace and contentment. But I think I tried to force things that looked good on other people to fit me instead of just being silent and listening to me.

Through Tim I met a woman who was married to his friend. She was a convert to the church and totally devoted to Mary. She started asking me to prayer groups, and since I'm always looking for where I fit in, I would go with her. They were usually wrapped up in some Marian apparition and would discuss that, read messages from Mary, say the rosary. That type of thing. What I really looked forward to was the the coffee and conversation afterwards. They were nice women, and I enjoyed our time together. I didn't mind praying the rosary with other ladies because that way I wouldn't fall asleep. It felt good. Around 1990 we decided to go to Medjugorea. I will be honest. I was excited about going because I love traveling, seeing new things, experiencing how others live. I wasn't either a believer or a disbeliever in the apparitions. I went because it's exciting to get on a plane and head out.

It was a good trip. Everybody around me had this hyper type devotion to Mary. I did not. I tried, and it never happened. Everybody wanted something to happen: the sun to dance in the sky, hear voices, mysterious pictures to appear. I was just enjoying my time. Now while I was there two things happened to me. I've never really talked about them to anyone other than my husband. By the way he finds it easy to believe in miracles; I'm more the cynic.

The first thing that happened was this: I standing with my tour group, probably 50 people. We were gathered in the street underneath the balcony of a house where one of the visionaries lived. She was standing on the balcony, talking to the crowd. I don't remember what she was saying. Anyway, as I was standing there, suddenly this incredibly strong scent of roses surrounded me. No one had walked away, no one had joined the group. In fact, no one was moving; they were are rooted to the spot listening to this girl talk through interpretor. The scent was so strong I thought I might have a hay fever attack. I looked around me, and no one seemed aware of anything. They were all looking at the girl. As far as I could tell, it was just me. The only person I ever shared this with was my husband. He's always maintained it was a gift from Mary.

The second happening. I had this medal that my parents had given me when I was in high school. It was a Miraculous Medal made out of pewter. I always wore it. Probably more so because my parents gave it to me rather than having some devotion to the Immaculate Conception of St. Catherine Laboure. It was a couple days before we leaving to return home, and my friend looked at me and asked where I had bought the new medal. I hadn't bought a new medal; it was the same old one. She thought it was new because it was gold. Sure enough, it didn't look pewter, it looked gold. Now a lot of people were saying their rosaries were turning gold and such, but there was no denying that my medal was a different color. The medal not only turned gold (color) but the link that connected it to the chain was gold also. The chain was the same. Some years later I was leaning over a chain link fence and caught the medal on it. When I jerked up the it pulled the medal off. I found the medal but could never find the link so I put a new one on. It was silver, just like my old chain. The next day the link was gold. Well, the medal was old and wearing thin. I was afraid where it would wear through where it connected to the link. I took it to a jewelry shop, and they tried filling it in but I always worried about it. So I put it in a special drawer.

When my dad was in the hospital the first time and they thought there was no way he could survive, I needed something desperately. I didn't know what that something was, but for some reason I went to my armoire and opened that drawer. There was my medal, still gold. I put it on. Throughout the day I would constantly pray that prayer: "O Mary, conceived with sin, pray for us who have recourse to Thee." My dad recovered. I still have my medal, in the drawer. I looked at it the other day. The chain is gone. The medal is still a gold color. I haven't felt that need for it, so it waits.

Anyway, back to the story. After we got back, the women seemed to get more and more fanatical. They lived by the messages. They fasted on certain days, said prayers a certain amount of times. It became unbelievably legalistic. I felt that some of them had moved from devotion to worship. Catholics are always being accused of worshiping Mary, and, of course, Catholics will say they only worship God. I'm not sure how I feel about this. I have met some people who call Mary a Goddess. I still don't know. I'm thinking. And I'm getting sidetracked again.

Back to the story. Then some of them got into Garabandal after a man spoke at a local church about those apparitions. They were a little too out there for me. In fact, they made me down right uneasy. I started to drift away. The conversation at coffee after the prayer group was always about 3 days of darkness, or a cloud pillar in the sky, or the end of the world. I was expecting any moment for one of them to start talking about the rapture. It wasn't working anymore.

About this time this same friend asked me to a new prayer group. It sounded a little more grounded so I went. They were called cenacles and focused around a Fr. Gobbi - I think, the memory fails. He was an Italian priest who received messages from Mary. I remember reading these messages and some of them not sitting well with me. They always focused on sin and hell and being good and heaven. I know one of them said something about Mohhamed and the anti-Christ and the year 666. Again, not for me. But one thing came out of this. I met the woman who become my closest friend. The cenacles were held at her house.

She was a mom of 5, I was a mom of 2 at the time. She homeschooled, and I was planning on homeschooling. She liked to sew, cook, bake bread, garden. I did too. So shortly I romanticizing the 'little woman' role. I was still working at the time but was planning on quitting and she encouraged me in this. We became very close friends. She, too, drifted away from the Marian apparitions and finally stopped having the cenacle at her house. She was more of the intellectual type. She read Aquinas, studied encyclicals, was raising her children to be apologists and save the church from the Satan led liberals. Well, it was also easy for me to romanticize that. Saving the church. Sacrificing myself for the good of the church. Noble. And she and her friends got together weekly to talk, discuss, drink coffee and eat pie. I had found a new group. Little did I know that this one would be catalyst for me falling away from traditional Catholicism and Christianity.

My kids need some snuggling and a book. I need a cup of tea. This computer needs a rest. So until later....

My mind was wandering yesterday as I was pondering all the thoughts that have been bombarding me lately. I was trying to see why I'm so uncomfortable trying to speak to my husband about what I'm thinking. Just now I went back and read that long diatribe I wrote yesterday, and while it is true from my perspective, I think it is also true that I'm afraid to open up. My husband married this dedicated, loyal, to the letter of the law type Catholic woman, and he probably thought that was what I would remain. I think I'm afraid of him being disappointed with me, feeling as though I let him down, that I've betrayed him somehow. I'm afraid of how he will receive what I'm going through.

After dinner last night I told him I really needed to say some things to him. I was embarrassed and timid, plus I didn't want to make him feel he needed to get defensive - which I'm not good at. But I finally just dove in. He listened. He let me talk. He looked at me with concern and love. When I told him I could not teach catechism to the younger girls, he didn't get upset. He asked me what I could do, I said I could teach them about this God that is full of love, that we need to open up to this awesome spirit that connects all of us. I said I couldn't focus on heaven, hell, mortal sin, rewards or punishments, but I could focus on how we treat all people. I said I couldn't teach that the bible was divinely inspired, but that it was written by men who were trying to find answers to their own lives, trying to find their way and make sense out of the sufferings. He nodded his head. Then we talked some more, and I mentioned to him some of the questions/problems I have with traditional Christianity, and he nodded. Then he told me he had some questions himself, but that if he didn't think about them, and I didn't mention them, he could ignore them. I smiled because I knew that. We went for another walk. And I felt safe with sharing my intimate thoughts with him. It's been a long time since I felt safe doing that. Maybe I can open up even more in the future, but I think it best if I don't dump too much on him.

Right now the twins are in Rel. Ed. so they can make their First Communion next year. I need to get them through that. I really can't rock the boat too much right now. However, I feel relieved he heard me and accepted what I said. I wish I still didn't have moments of panic where I'm afraid I'll end up in hell - whatever hell might be - and I wish I could learn to trust my inner voice. It's hard. This journey has taken more faith in a loving spirit than I ever needed to follow black and white rules that were laid out for me by someone else. I feel I'm getting stronger, but it's been a long, windy, bumpy path.

Sunday Thoughts

I want tell about what happened today, but I need to get these thoughts straight in my mind. I've talked about how my husband doesn't really want to hear about my faith/religious/spiritual struggles; that they make him uncomfortable, he doesn't know what to say or how to help me. I also believe - my belief - that he doesn't want to hear my struggles because then he might have a few of his own. Well, today I felt a need to say something to him, but first I'm backing up a bit.

Since I started this journey I have told my husband in a very point blank, plain English type way that I'm having a faith crisis. Probably a half dozen times. This would be over 4 or 5 years. A couple of them I remember vividly. One evening we were sitting outside and the conversation wandered over into the realm of God. I felt the urge to share some of thoughts so I started talking, a little, because I wasn't confident about sharing too much. Finally I looked at him and said, "Tim, I having a faith crisis." He just looked at me. He didn't respond. After a minute or so he looked out at the orchard and commented that he needed to finish picking up the slash.

Another time was last August. I wrote it down in my daytimer. We were in KMart of all places. I don't remember what led the conversation to God, but something pushed my buttons and I told him I didn't feel he really heard me. Of course, he reassures me that he hears and listens and cares. Then I asked why he never asked how I was doing? That people I've never met who live across the country show more concern about my faith, or loss of faith, than he does. Somewhere in here I blurted out I wasn't even sure if I believed Jesus was divine, the son of God, in the traditional Christian understanding. He asked what he could do. I told him to pray for me. He said he does, and I believe that. Then I asked him to check with me once in awhile, ask how the journey was going. He said he would. As of today he's never asked.

One other time, last summer. I'm not sure if it was before or after my KMart meltdown, but we were standing in the kitchen. I told him I saw that he clearly didn't want to talk about religion or spirituality or any problems pertaining thereto. He admitted he really didn't. Then he said to me that he believed in God and that he went to church because it was the right thing to do, but other than that he didn't want to go down any of those "man made rat holes". Okay. So I don't say much to him.

Now today I felt the need to say something about where I'm at right now because he needs to understand what I'm capable of giving and what I'm not capable of giving in terms of passing on faith, religious education with our girls. Backing up again, about a year ago or maybe longer ago than that, our second oldest daughter was really balking at taking part in some religious activities. She absolutely refused to go to confession, and I supported her choice in that. I think my husband felt he was losing any control he had over this family, and we ended up in an argument about it. Not what I wanted to happen, but I felt it important he not try and force her to go to confession - not that in the end he actually could but he was trying everything he could think of. I finally got him to admit that you can't force someone to confess, or be sorry, that it must come from the person's heart. So in the end he dropped it but not until there were a couple unpleasant moments. When he was young he was forced into things, and I believe we often fall back on these default modes when pressured.

Anyway, there were others issues with our daughter, and we decided to take her out to dinner so we could talk. While we were there he started in on God, mortal sin, heaven, hell, church with her. She told us how she felt about religion, church. She told us the questions she had and the things that she just couldn't believe. Her dad wanted to make a point with her, but it started getting uncomfortable. She looked at me, pleading, wanting me to stop it. Then he looked at me expecting me to say something to back him up. And I couldn't. I just said that the conversation wasn't going anywhere and we should let it go so we could have a pleasant evening.

Later that evening at home he 'sort of' jumped on me for not saying something to her. He actually expected me to start lecturing her about theology, Catholic doctrine and tell her what was what, what was right, what was wrong. It was then that I realized he truly didn't understand that I couldn't do that. Either he had never truly heard me, or he didn't believe me maybe thinking I was just being an emotional female or making a mountain out of a molehill, but that whatever the case, he didn't not accept that I was having a real faith breakdown. I remember standing by the bed and the tears flowing down my face. Of course that wasn't what he wanted to happen, and he immediately felt bad. I just told him I couldn't talk right then.

The next day we went for a walk together, alone. I stopped, asked him to stop, and looked at him. Made eye contact. Then I asked what part of 'having a faith crisis' he didn't understand. I was angry, I was hurt, and I decided he needed to see that anger and hurt. He told me that he didn't know. I told him very clearly that I couldn't lecture Rachael because her questions were my questions, the issues she was having, I was having. If he wanted her to be lectured, he was going to have to do it, but I truly, truly believed that God, Jesus or whomever never wanted religion to be a source of tension in families. Since then he's pretty much let it drop. Fortunately Rachael, the daughter I'm talking about, has never refused to go Mass. She goes without too much complaint for which I'm glad because I don't know what her dad would do if she refused. He's dropped saying anything about confession and overall, I think relationships have improved drastically.

What's interesting about this is this daughter could run circles around him when it comes Catholic doctrine and teaching. When she was growing up, I made sure she got her daily dose of catechism. We studied and memorized and talked. I made sure my girls were the best catechized of any group because after all, they were going to save the church from the liberals. And, no, I don't have to ask why she's burned out and tired of religion.

I want to say that my husband is a kind, loving man. I love my husband. I have a very good marriage. I think we become complacent with one another, take each other for granted. He took my faith for granted. Just as I've done the same with him. Also, I know he has his own faith issues, but I don't know how much I want to talk about that since that's his story and not mine. I think I'll mention his faith as I see it relating to me, but I could never say exactly what he believes, doesn't believe because that's his faith.

Well, time moved forward and here we are. I restrain from talking to him about what I'm thinking. A few times we've had a good conversation about God, spirituality, just naturally, not me instigating it or bring my issues into it. But last night while we were at Mass I looked over at him, and it hit me again that I still don't believe he has accepted what I'm going through. I could almost swear that he thinks things are back at the status quo. I'm at Mass, I don't say too much of anything, we're going forward as if everything is normal. But it's not. And we still have three younger children coming along, and he's probably thinking that I'm teaching them everything Christian and Catholic. But I'm not because I just can't right now. And he should know that. I don't want him thinking I'm doing something that I'm not doing. He could be taking it for granted that I'm teaching and sharing with Catholicism and faith with the younger girls as I did with the older two. I don't want someday for him to look at me and say, "I thought you were catechizing them."

So I thought I would talk to him today. I asked him to go for a walk with me, but nothing worked out. He seemed frustrated and cranky with people, and that negative energy seemed to engulf me, and I lost my confidence that I could speak kindly, without making him defensive. So I didn't say anything. And it's all building up inside of me right now. This is my journey, my path. I'm not upset with him, he didn't do this to me. I just need to share it. Maybe I'll try tomorrow.

Well, my girls are after me to get the corned beef on the table. We're celebrating St. Paddy's Day early since everyone is home. I'll think and write more later.

Does God Abandon Us?

My daughter, Abra, takes piano lessons from our parish DRE for elementary. She is a wonderful woman. My daughter loves her gentle nature and teaching. Plus the teacher loves having Abra once a week for lessons. I truly believe she looks forward to Thursday afternoons when she walks across the hall from her office and enjoys some music. A win-win situation. This lady has been having a very difficult time lately with several issues including depression, financial, an unwell husband. Added to that her sister is dying from cancer.

Yesterday she asked us to pray for her sister. I said, of course we will. I thought perhaps she had gotten worse. Then she explained that her sister is an atheist. She was asking for prayers that her sister would let God in before she dies. Again, I said of course we will pray for your sister to open her whole being to God. Then I said, "But you know, just because your sister says she doesn't need God doesn't mean God has abandoned your sister. God would never abandon any of us." But, you know, I don't think she believes that.

She didn't say this, but this is the feeling she left me with. That unless her sister makes a decision to believe/accept God's existence, that she is all alone, God isn't with her. For God to be with her, she will have to mentally make a decision to open her heart and ask God in.

I do not believe that.

How could God not be a part of us. He is in us. We have God in us. We are part of God. He could not abandon this woman. Also looking at God as Father, how could a Perfectly Loving father abandon his child? As a mother, I could never abandon my children. In the end, that door would always be open and my love would always be there. Even if my child denied me, I would still be there.

How many people view God this way? As a God 'up there', looking down on us here on Earth. They must view God as separate from us. Does our piano teach truly believe that if her sister dies without accepting God, she will not go to heaven. Does she believe God would send her sister to hell? I was afraid to ask. Not only because it's a very touch subject, but also because I don't think I would like the answer.

I read something recently that went like this: In the Old Testament God created man in his own image, and we've been repaying the favor ever since. Yeah, you could say that.

I'm thinking on this. And here comes a heretical sentiment. In the end, does it matter? During life I believe that accepting God's existence can make our life infinitely better, if only on an invisible level. But in the end, is God going to hold it against us if we chose to navigate this world without acknowledging him?

And in this life if a person chooses not to believe in God, does that mean God is no longer in them? He is no longer part of their life?

If I remember correctly, mortal sin kills the life of God in your soul. His grace is gone. I remember a picture from my old Baltimore Catechism of two little kids. One had a heart with a picture of God in it. The other little kid had a black, empty heart. How awful.

What a petty, jealous God.

And what about all the love these non-believers have felt. My b-i-l says he is an atheist. I know he loves his wife, his daughter, his parents, his siblings. He's respectful of people, takes care of this beautiful Earth. Doesn't that love have its own energy? All that love is for naught?

Our piano teacher said her sister doesn't believe in God because her life is so much simpler without God. When I told Tim that, he said it's probably because people (perhaps her family, maybe even her sister) have made God so complicated she doesn't want him in her life. Sadly, I can understand that.

I have more thoughts but am stopping for now.

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.

Intro

I usually blog over at Xanga but have been looking for a somewhat more anonymous spot in which to ramble and think. I'm not totally comfortable with telling my story, nor do I think most of my visitors would really be interested in it. Not that my story is embarrassing or that I have much dirty laundry to air. It's rather mundane; just my story. This will be my spot to think out loud, ramble along, change direction without prior notice, repeat myself as I find necessary, without feeling any need to be witty and humorous or profound and intellectual, not that I'm any of those things on a regular basis. I comment very little here at Blogger, so except for the random passerby or someone whose blog I have commented, no one who knows me knows I'm here - until I'm found. Anonymity. What an odd thought considering this is the internet.

At the age of 47 I find myself on a path that a decade ago I would have sworn in blood I would never travel, and I find myself very alone in this particular journey. I have a wonderful husband and family, but this is my journey. I would very much, at some point, love to share this with my husband, but right now it would make me feel more vulnerable. Also, I think it would make him uncomfortable. He doesn't think and ponder as I do. What has been a huge, guiding force in my life has not been one in his. He's a man; I'm a woman. We have different needs, different personalities. He would feel responsible to help me solve these issues even though I would assure him it isn't his responsibility. As much as I never thought I would be here, I am sure he never thought this would happen to his wife, either. I'm in the midst of a faith crisis.

I'll freely admit that being a middle aged, pre-menopausal woman probably has much to do with this. I don't find this a reason to sweep it under the rug and ignore it as best I can for the next 10 years or however long it might last. Also, there are other reasons I am where I am having little to do with my hormone fluctuations. Whatever the reasons, here I am, very much alone.

Right now at this point in my life I am without a woman friend. I've never been one to have many friends; one or two does quite nicely. But in the past I've always had several acquaintences - the kind you stop and visit with in the store, meet up with at park day, visit occasionally with on the phone - but most importantly I've always had a friend. The kind you sit down with at you kitchen table, the teapot between you full of Constant Comment or Earl Grey, a few cookies and several to talk, laugh and cry together. She is someone you could share your inner turmoil with and you wouldn't be embarrassed by the fact that your family is less than perfect: teenage problems, marriage problems, depression, grief, happiness, dreams. You could even share your faith crisis, honestly without having to choose words carefully. For me, however, my friend (and acquaintenaces) were are based on sharing the same religion. More importantly, sharing the perspective of that religion. So when I started to fall away, my friend fell away. I had become a danger to her soul.

And that brings me here. This blog will be my friend sitting across the table from me. I will enjoy my cup of tea, talk away unhindered, share thoughts and feelings. Of course, this friend lacks human warmth and love and the ability to converse with me. If along the way someone wants to leave a thought, please do. There is much to be learned from others who have forged their own spiritual path.