Faith

As a single mother, I worried.  My greatest worry was what if something happened to me?  Where would Lilly go? What would happen to her? I thought of my own death, not out of fear for myself, but out of fear for Lilly.  I was the only parent she had to care for her.  I made plans with Greg, Donna, Gus, and anyone I could recruit to swear allegiance to Lilly and to protect and defend her if I could no longer do so. 

A wounded animal goes home to die.  In my darkest hours, I longed for home. But the concept of home was a myth.  After my father died, there was no home for me anymore, in any piece of land or in any house. I am a wanderer adrift, riding the waves like a piece of driftwood, back and forth, never returning to its natural state. The only home I can claim is a six-foot-deep plot of land, surrounded by my ancestors and, sadly, some contemporaries.  Only then will I be returned to my natural state.

There are moments, as I have gotten older, when I fear the icy breath of death at my back.  When I stand up suddenly and remember that I inherited Mom’s “Grow heart thing,” I must wait until my heart stops screaming.   I enjoyed a brief respite in my forties and fifties; the heart behaved itself or went unnoticed amid the chaos of living. I escaped the early fifties colon cancer curse that took some of my father’s side, only to live long enough to break into the age when the colon cancer took most of my father’s bloodline’s lives, including his.

I fear my maker, if indeed He exists.  I have never had the luxury of faith.  I tested faith and found it wanting.  I overthought myself out of beliefs, but not the desire for reassurance that some part of me will be immortal.  Then I scoff, for if I am unable to return to my loved ones, what use is immortality?

I fear judgment as well.  The dichotomy is not lost on me.  If there is no white Christian God sitting on a cloud to assist me in life, how can He exist to judge?   I admit my sins and my faults, sins that others may not consider severe but can haunt me late at night.  If I face judgment, I have only one statement to make in my defense.  A poem by Robert Frost: “Forgive O’Lord, my little jokes on thee.  And I will forgive thy great big one on me.”

If what a combination of various religions has taught me is true, that there is a power beyond my mind’s comprehension, then I have already been judged and found wanting.  If I rise to face a faraway judgment day, I have only a sarcastic poem in my defense.  That and the one other thing I did well in this world, my daughter.  She is the gentleness of my soul, made whole.  She is the whirling of my mind, gathered and directed.  She is my fears and dreams realized and made into a woman that I must set free.

I had no faith to impart to Lilly.  My mother used the warning, “God is always watching; He can always see you,” to keep me on a good path on a busy day.  God was the ultimate babysitter, making me hesitate and keeping me from dangerous but enticing adventures.  This warning lasted only long enough for me to lose my first pet.  Despite my prayers and entreaties, death came as it always does, cruelly and thoughtlessly, through the veil of a little girl’s tears. 

Dad never spoke to me about God.  Other than a “goddammit” frequently, the word never crossed his lips.  On the night before his death, it seemed like each relative and neighbor brought their own denomination’s clergy to Dad’s bedside to offer a last-minute conversion and redemption. I watched the helpless men in badly tailored suits pray over my father, offering comfort to a dying man.  I knew the words from my forced religious education, but I did not recite along with the ministers and priests.  My anger and the sarcasm that accompanied it forbade me from speaking.  Later, after the holy men had all left, Dad told me that it had comforted him to pray.  I knew then the depth of my father’s fear of stepping into the unknown.

With either a judgmental babysitter or a comfort in a last-ditch effort as examples, I had no deep belief to pass on to Lilly.  Maternal guilt, however, forced me to consider at least a passing acquaintance with God for my daughter. One evening, reviewing my perceived missteps as a mother, I decided that at least Lilly should have some faith in her life.  Perhaps she would find the blind devotion that seemed to create such overwhelming security and happiness.  

I looked around and found a Missouri Synod Lutheran Church.  Rigid, unbending, and unforgiving as it might have seemed in my childhood, it was still a part of home in my new world.  With four-year-old Lilly in hand, both of us dressed in our Sunday best, I entered the church for Sunday morning worship services.  The sights, sounds, and smells were uncomfortably familiar as I stood just behind the pews. 

As I knew would happen, Lilly and I were assaulted by “the church ladies”.  Agelessly old, with the same hairstyle and knit pantsuit uniforms of every Missouri Synod Lutheran church, three of them confronted us.

“And you are?”

“Where are you from?”

“Do you live here? You must have just moved here?”

“Are you Lutheran?  Missouri Synod Lutheran?”

“Pastor, we have a guest!”

Lilly gripped my hand hard. The trio intimidated her; their enthusiasm for knowing everything about our business was daunting even to me. At the call of one lady’s “Pastor!”, a portly middle-aged white man in a universally poorly fitted suit came over to the gathering.

“What is your name?  How old is your daughter?”

I answered politely. From my recollection, I knew that this was only the opening volley.

“Did someone send you here?”

“Yeah, Pastor, they heard this is where the good drunken orgies are held and wanted me to come out on a scouting expedition,” words unspoken, existing only in my mind.  Instead, I politely answered that I had found the church in the yellow pages and that my daughter and I were looking for a church to join, having lived in the community for over a year.

“Are you Lutheran?  Missouri Synod Lutheran?”

I answered affirmatively.

“Are you baptized?  Where did you go to church?”

“I was baptized in the Wolf Lake, Minnesota, Missouri Synod Lutheran Church.”

A small white lie, I was not going to explain that my father and the minister were feuding at the time of my baptism.  Dad wasn’t going to set foot inside the church, and the minister wasn’t going to allow him in anyway.  The rented farmhouse, where I was baptized in the living room, was close enough to Wolf Lake to fudge a bit.

“When were you confirmed?”

“Oh, for Christ's sake.” I thought to myself.  Does he also need a stool specimen and a letter of recommendation?  I have had shorter job interviews than this crap. I just wanted to see if my kid felt comfortable in church.   Again, I knew enough to keep my mouth shut, only for Lilly’s sake. 

I knew the confirmation question would be asked; it was a given for this church. If I said I had not been confirmed, I would be offered classes.  If I refused the classes, I would not be eligible for membership, and neither would Lilly. I had to think quickly, standing there in a church of the Lord, my child innocently clinging to my hand.  I did some rapid math in my head, took classes in junior high school, quit school in the spring of 1979, quit adult confirmation classes in 1985, and I don’t want to seem like a heathen or a slow learner.

“1976, Grace Lutheran Church, Missouri Synod, Sebeka, Minnesota.”

The year would be about right for my age, and I knew that no one at that church would remember me, or have a record of my attendance, or rather, lack of attendance. I desperately tried to think of the name of the minister at the time, but I had drawn a blank.  Pastor Martin, that sounds like a good name. I had the answer to my next question on deck and ready to go.

“Welcome, welcome.” The pastor enthused, signaling that I had passed the top-secret screening test, allowing me to attend the church today.  I didn’t even want to consider what would have happened if I had failed.  Would I be pushed back out the doors to shouts and jeers?  A heathen in their midst, forced to run with my child in my arms as the parishioners threw rocks at us?

I found a pew for Lilly and me to sit near the back exit, just in case.  The cold, hard pew felt familiar even after all the years that had passed. I recognized the hymnal, bound and stored on the back of the pew in front of me.  I picked it up, it smelled like memories and boring church services, with songs in impossibly high notes and slavishly devotional lyrics.

As I opened to another forgettable song to be sung in a soprano monotone, karma came back to get me.  I was Lilly’s age when my sister, Donna, banned me from church. On that day, I was obviously bored with the tuneless Lutheran hymns, and standing on the pew, I sang: “Rye Whiskey, rye whiskey, oh whiskey and rye.  If the whiskey don’t kill me, I will live ‘til I die”.  Donna, a mortified teenager, had to drag me off the pew and out of the church.  On that day, Donna swore she would never attend church with me again.  What she didn’t tell me was that she had cursed me as well.  Everyone is familiar with the curse: “I hope someday you have a kid just like you!”

My karma was Lilly, seeing that I was momentarily distracted, slipping off her pew, and running up to the altar.  “Shit!” I said (hopefully to myself).  I dropped the hymnal and ran in hot pursuit.  I wasn’t fast enough, though, as one of the church ladies, in a pastel knit sweater set, leapt from the front pew and grabbed Lilly by the collar.   As she collared my wayward child, she dipped and genuflected before the altar.

                “Holy shit!” I thought to myself, what in the name of Mom’s “catlick” comments was going on here?  I had never seen a good Missouri Synod Lutheran Church Lady genuflect at an altar.  A Lutheran may take off his hat, but no one bowed in a Missouri Synod Lutheran Church; that was the very principle that set us apart!  Did I just break one of Mom’s rules and be stupid enough to get myself involved in “some cult”?   Mom thought the handshake of peace during the service was “too culty” for her taste.

                A second church lady popped up, did some sort of curtsy at the altar, and handed me a hymnal open to the correct page as I grabbed Lilly’s arm with my right hand. The two standing church ladies and the remaining seated lady all looked at me expectantly.  I smiled and dragged Lilly back to our pew. 

                The rest of the service, I sat staring straight ahead, Lilly wiggling like a fish on the line at the end of my arm.  I held her in a death grip until we could escape at the end. Donna was fifteen when I embarrassed her, and I had my turn in my forties.  It seems my sister likes to play the long game.

                The ten-mile drive home was silent.  I am not sure what Lilly was thinking; she didn’t speak a word, and I didn’t ask.  Separately, we both must have come to the same conclusion, and we never returned to the local Missouri Synod Lutheran Church.

                Sometime later, months after our Lutheran debacle, Lilly herself brought up church attendance.  When I buckled her into her booster seat, she made a serious announcement.

                “On Sunday, I am going to ' services' with my friends.”

I let that thought sink in as I got in the driver’s seat.  Out of town and on the open road, I asked Lilly the question I had carefully formulated and considered.  Many of Lilly’s classmates at preschool were members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.  Being a missionary is a goal and an honor in their faith, and it was common for the small children to bring church-related items, toys, and trinkets for their friends.  I assumed, correctly as I found out, that Lilly had been on the receiving end of a precocious missionary in training. 

                “Is your friend who invited you a Mormon?”

                “Uh huh”

That explained the sudden interest in services.  I thought it would be great for Lilly to learn about and engage with people of different backgrounds and faiths.  If I personally could not give my child a solid faith, I could give her tolerance and the willingness to learn.

  But I wasn’t sure that Lilly knew what she was getting herself into. We had moved into an area heavily populated with LDS followers, and to understand my neighbors, residents, and staff, I had asked questions and studied the faith. Lilly had failed at an hour-long Lutheran service. She was not prepared for what I had learned.

                “So, what do you think the services are like?”  I asked, genuinely curious.

                “I am gonna order the eggs Benedict, and hashbrowns, and the grape jelly in those little bottles.  You want me to get some of the little ketchup bottles for you?  They would fit in your purse, and then you could have ketchup whenever you wanted.”

                Oh, Grandma, what have you wrought?  Grandma, with your fancy suites at Lake Tahoe, Reno, and Vegas.  Sending me off to work while you and Lilly wrapped yourself in fuzzy white bathrobes and slippers, perusing the room service menu.  While her friend was talking about faith and worship, Lilly was planning her breakfast menu. Now, I had to break the cold, hard truth to Lilly.

                “Honey, those aren’t the same services your friend was talking about.  They were talking about going to church services with them on Sunday at the Stake House.  The services don’t serve food.  And they last three hours.  You have to sit still and listen to people talk about God for three hours.  That means you go right after breakfast and must listen to people talk to you until almost lunchtime.  But they don’t feed you at the services.”

                “I don’t wanna go and listen to someone talk about God for that long!”  Lilly announced vehemently.  Thus, ended her almost conversion to the LDS faith.

                The next time Church came up in our conversations was the early summer before her first-grade year.  Signs were posted in front of every church in our tiny town and in the bigger village of Ely, announcing VBS, Vacation Bible School.   Two blocks away from our house, the Methodist church posted a sign announcing that VBS was starting next week.

                Our neighbor, a sometimes-single mother with several children, had a daughter named Nyla who was friends with Lilly.  After playing one afternoon at Nyla’s house, Lilly came home with plans.

                “I am going to Vacation Bible School with Nyla.”

A quick check of the weekly newspaper from Ely confirmed that the Vacation Bible School hours were in the late afternoon.  The schedule accommodated working mothers and busy families.  I could bring Lilly home, feed her a meal, and drop her off at VBS.  I had fond memories of Vacation Bible School as a child: arts and crafts, snacks, and games.  Lilly would have fun, and I would have a few hours of “me” time.

The first evening of Vacation Bible School was a mixture of mountain weather.  At an altitude of 7,000 and something feet, living on the side of a mountain brought weather best described as interesting.  The morning had started with sunshine, a beautiful summer day.  By noon, the sky had darkened, and rain fell steadily.  When it was time to go to VBS, the temperature had dropped dramatically, so we drove the two blocks in a snowstorm.  I thought to myself that it was not a good sign for Lilly’s religious instruction, then laughed it off; I was being melodramatic.

When I picked up Lilly to go home, she had barely landed in the seat when she told me in all seriousness the takeaway from her experience.

“I think they are lying to us.”

Not the statement I was expecting to hear as I sat in a jeep parked in front of a Methodist Church.  It was a small town; surely, I would have heard if the local Methodist Church was a hotbed of lies and balderdash.  I didn’t get to ask what the lies were about. Lilly was quite upset and angry that the adults would have the audacity to lie to a woman of the world, almost a first grader.

“They told us about the story of Nolah…”“You mean Noah?”

“Yeah, Nolah.” Lilly repeated

“No, not like Nyla, it's just No-ahhh.”

“So, No-ahhhh had to build a boat because it was raining and there was gonna be a flood.”

“Okay.” 

I knew this story; it always seemed straightforward to me.  I remember as a child when it rained all day, Mom would tell me, “We'd better start building a boat!”

                Mom never knew how much her casual comment frightened me.  I knew about Noah, and according to the story, only the good people got to go on the boat.  Basically, only Noah and his family.  If Tubby and Donna had any say in it, I would be left to drown in the floodwaters.  Not a funny joke, Mom, not funny. 

I didn’t have a chance to share that little bit of childhood trauma with Lilly; she was busy lecturing on the lies of Vacation Bible School.

                “They told us Noah put two of every animal in the world on that boat.  Every animal, Mom!”

                Oh, here it comes, I thought.  How did the penguins get there from Antarctica since they can’t fly?  How did the Lions not eat the other animals?  Why did they even save the poison snakes? Why mosquitoes?  Really?  And wood ticks?  Why, of all the creatures to save, did Noah grab two wood ticks and two mosquitoes?  All the questions I had at her age, but I didn’t dare ask anyone.

                “Yup, that’s what the Bible says,” I answered.

                “We have to clean Bingo Bunny Bunny’s cage every week!  And it's full of poop!  They said Noah had been on that boat for over a month!  There is no way that he was on that boat with all that poop!  It would have stunk too much, and they would have run out of room!”

                “Well, all I know is that your Grandpa Reuben would have had me and your Uncle Tubby and your Aunt Donna clean up the poop every day and throw it over the side of the boat.”

                That quieted her for a moment.  Walking into the house, Lilly stopped and turned around. 

                “How did they feed them? Why didn’t they eat each other?”

                “That’s a good question.  You should ask the ladies at Vacation Bible School that question tomorrow.”

                Take that, you dreaded church ladies of my childhood.   My payback for each narrowed-eyed stare, each pinch on the soft underside of my upper arm, each sigh of disappointment in me.  My Aunties who dragged me to church against my will, my mother who forced me to confirmation classes, and the church ladies who wrangled groups of us into Christmas Pageants.

                The next evening, as we left the house for VBS, the wind had picked up.  As we stepped onto the front porch, I heard a loud, explosive “BOOM”.  The sagging power lines in our ghost town on the side of a mountain succumbed to the ever-increasing wind speeds and blew out a transformer.  The entire little village of about two hundred people went dark.  Nonetheless, the Methodist church ladies assured me that they had “battery lights and a generator” and Vacation Bible School would go on as planned. 

I was a little nervous.  Wacky weather one day, not that unusual for the area.  Windstorm, another day with blown power lines, also not unusual in the years we had lived there.  But back-to-back, coinciding with Lilly going to Vacation Bible School?  I laughed at my silliness and drove home.  I kept a watchful eye in the rearview mirror while driving a couple of blocks.   Just in case I happened to see four cowboys on horseback behind me on the road. That evening, Lilly had no pronouncements about Vacation Bible School or the instructors.  Popcorn had been served, crafts were crafted, and whatever story was told must have been believable.

Day three of Vacation Bible School made me question my agreement to allow Lilly to attend.  It rained.  Slowly at first in the early afternoon, then torrential sheets of rain in the evening.  My wipers could not keep up for the few minutes it took to drive Lilly to the church.  Streets had flooded, and I was thankful I had the jeep. As soon as I parked, a church lady carrying a giant umbrella appeared through the doorway.

“It’s raining cats and dogs out tonight!”  She announced cheerfully, opening Lilly’s door and unbuckling her seat belt.  “Hurry up, sweetie, share my umbrella, we are going to have to run, run, run!”

I watched Lilly be ushered into the church, the lady returning to her post in the doorway to escort other children inside under the umbrella's protection.  I was worried.  This wasn’t normal.  I had been to Vacation Bible School for several years of my childhood, and there had been no heavenly retribution for my attendance.  Even when Cousin Butch, all of four years old, had snuck away at playtime and shoplifted a candy bar, the skies had not opened like this!

I sat in the parking lot and grabbed my cell phone.  I needed to talk to someone safe and sane.  Someone with as wild an imagination as I had, who had the same sick, sarcastic sense of humor.  I called John.

Explaining that I had just dropped Lilly off at VBS, I told him that the rain was coming down in a thick wall and the streets had turned into rivers.  Living in Houston, John was familiar with flooding and immediately grew concerned.

“Are you safe?  Do you need to get somewhere?  Where’s Lilly?  Why are you out in this storm?”

“I live halfway down a mountain; all it means is that my garbage cans will wash across the highway and end up at the bottom of the valley.  I’m not worried about the water.”

“Then what's wrong?”

“You’ve seen the movie Omen, right?  Scared the hell out of all of us as kids.  You know, they told us she wasn’t likely to live. But she did. Then, they told us that she would be severely delayed and disabled.  And she wasn’t.  She is like any other kid.  But she wasn’t supposed to be like every other kid.  Now, I take her to church for three days, and for three days, the whole town has been under attack!  Maybe God is trying to tell me something?   I’m scared; she has two more days left.  What is gonna happen next? Lightning strikes?  Maybe a landslide?”

John started laughing.  “Maybe you should pull her out of Vacation Bible School just in case, before anyone gets hurt.”

“I can’t do that; her friend Nyla is going too.  I’m gonna have to ride this out and hope nobody gets hurt.”

When I brought her home that evening, Lilly went straight to the living room sofa and sat down.  Her face was serious, her eyes narrowed.  I knew that look, a combination of anger and deep thought.  Lilly was a thinker, and she was preparing to unleash her opening statement to the jury.  In this case, I was the jury.

Knowing what was to come was inevitable, and I had only to bide my time, I picked up a book and sat down in the living room.  We sat in silence for a few minutes.  Then Lilly spoke.

“They talked about God being our father.  He’s the father of everybody on earth.  And he has two places: Heaven, which is where good people go and are happy forever.  And hell, where bad people go, and they burn and are sad forever.”

No wonder Lilly needed time to contemplate.  Hearing about heaven and hell and good and bad and punishment and reward from an ever-watching father was all a bit overwhelming for her young mind. I also knew that Lilly, like all children, can easily miss the entire point of a lesson and focus on some obscure, irrelevant piece of information.  I needed to know the context and the comprehension before I could go any further.  Honestly, I was hoping the context and understanding would be brief and simple; I had no desire for this conversation.

“I don’t think that is right,” Lilly said.

I waited.  I knew my daughter.  She had a lot going on in her head and was preparing the volley of facts, ideas, and theories.  I might as well buckle up and settle in; I wasn’t getting out of this one unscathed.

“If God is our father,” she continued. “Then he wouldn’t send us to hell to be burned and in pain forever.  Parents don’t do that. He would want his children to be with Him no matter what.”

“Good point,” I conceded.  I couldn’t argue that, but I did have to ask the question.  “What about if a person is really bad?”

“God sends them to time out for a while so they can think about what they did.  And if they are sorry and promise to be better, then they get to go to Heaven and be with God.  Even bad people who kill people can get better.  Besides, they can’t kill anyone in heaven; you have to be dead to be there.”

“But what if they are really, really bad? And they go to time out, but they don’t change their mind?” I asked.

“Then he probably tells them why they were bad, and they have to go back and start over and be a baby and grow up and be better next time. And God sends them back and back until they decide to be good people.  Because it's their choice and they will want to go to heaven more than being bad.”

I considered this.  The basic structure of the Church of Lilly.

“I like it. We can call it the Church of Lilly.  It makes sense.  Of course, a parent would never hate their children forever; God would want us to be with Him.  And He would give us as many chances as it takes to be a better person.  Can I join the Church of Lilly?”

“You can.”  Lilly proclaimed seriously.  Then, having been validated, she went off to get ready for bed. 

Of course, she didn’t know it at the time, but Lilly had re-invented Judaism.  There is a belief that when Moses came down from Mount Sinai to give the Chosen People the Ten Commandments, all the souls of the Israelites (Jewish people) were present.  All the souls, past, present, and future, received the Word of God.  When the tribes were scattered, migration, genocide, and geography created new families and different faiths. But always, somehow, the souls present at Mt. Sinai are called to their God regardless of distance.  Had this childhood experience with religion called to Lilly’s soul? 

Many years later, Lilly became friends with many of the Jewish students at the University.  She had the opportunity to meet Holocaust survivors and their descendants.  She learned about the Jewish people's faith and history.  She was accepted without question in her search for knowledge. 

When she was asked about her life and family, Lilly explained that she was very close to her mother, who was a bit overprotective of her as a child.  This led her to explain that she was born sixteen weeks early, weighing one pound.  The older ladies were amazed, declaring that Lilly truly was a miracle.  It was proclaimed to Lilly that God indeed had plans for her.

When asked about her religious instruction, Lilly explained the Church of Lilly, which currently had two congregants.  The rabbis and their wives laughed and explained to Lilly in amazement, “That’s Judaism!”

Lilly was not raised with any religious training.  She was raised to be empathetic and caring.  I taught her to be nice to people because every human being is valuable and worth our kindness.  I taught her that some people are bad and that she didn’t have to tolerate anyone who was “bad” or unkind to her.  I encouraged her to think for herself and never follow the herd. I taught her tolerance, to never insult or ridicule anyone for their beliefs.  I encouraged her to question and learn, always.  I taught her to be a good person, not because of a bearded white man on a cloud, but because being a good person is the highest level of achievement any human being can obtain.

Unshackled and sent out into the world to learn, I have the joy of learning with her. Each new idea or concept was relayed to me in great detail. As her Aunt Cathy likes to say, “With Lilly, you don’t need a radio in the car.”

Lilly understands, to quote another famous debater, "When we speak of knowing God, it must be understood with reference to man's limited powers of comprehension. God, as He really is, is far beyond man's imagination, let alone understanding. God has revealed only so much of Himself as our minds can conceive and the weakness of our nature can bear." ~ John Milton