Religion is one of those things that you are
either born in to, or not. You either belong to a God fearing, church going
family, or you aren’t. Neither are an absolute to what will happen once you are
grown and can make up your own mind, but the chances of making church a habit
are born out of one or the other. If you grow up on the front pew you are just
as likely to end worshiping the Anti-Christ as you are if your parents,
grandparents or neighbors never even made you sit in the back of the church.
As I listen to the women of my family ramble on
and on about God, church, and the heavens and earth have helped perfect my
style of smiling and nodding to the point that it hardly takes any effort at all
these days. Today is no exception mind you. I smile. I nod. I go back to staring
through the window out to the front yard, merely listening for my name to be
called. If there is one thing I’m of is today is the day that the conversation
is going to take that turn, and I’m relying on being a little ahead of where
it’s headed.
Looking back on my life it seems to clear how I
became such a cynic anytime his name is brought up. I mean when it comes to
church and churches they should just hand over a degree with honors in my name.
If you took a close look at me you might find it hard to believe that I am as
of today a non-practicing Mormon.
Yep! You heard me MORMON, and let it be known that
I have nothing against Mormons. I think they are just fine folks and have one
of the best family outlooks of any church I’ve been to. Well except for those
loonies in the mountains. No it isn’t a well known fact that I am a member
amongst my friends, unless jokes of special underwear and polygamy comes up
then my non-active ass will read you the right act all about those mountain men
and how they ARE NOT Mormon. Push me and I’ll go into great detail on the
history of polygamy and how it came and went within the religion
“Yes I remember Brother Smith Mom, and the
fact he married you and dad.” …
Back to my window staring.
So where was I? Oh yes, being born into religion.
I can’t say that a lot of my friends these days are traditional when it comes
to church; many are much more focused more on the spiritual as opposed to the
actual building. Hell, I’m not sure who all owns a bible and I couldn’t tell
you where my last copy went ether. That makes it even harder to listen to these
women yap on, if I had a bible I could dispute some of the facts they’ve seemed
to long forget or ignored.
It’s not that I have anything against them and
their resurrected views on actually showing up on Sunday. No it’s that they are
people who tend to only show up when something is truly wrong in life. Someone
comes down with a serious illness and its prayer cards, and holy rolling. Life
starts treating them well or as well as they expect and there would be a whole
different conversation happening around a pot of coffee and five-thousand piece
puzzle.
The funny thing is my family is the exact reason
in how I know that you are either born into church or you aren’t. Everyone one
of us has at one point attended the same little church in our lives. My mother,
my aunt’s and even my cousins have walked through the doors and shook hands
with elders all the while invoking the brother and sister terms deemed
appropriate. Hell, half of my family is buried just outside the side exit where
at one time a full family plot existed. Today there may be one spot left as
each plot was either reserved well in advance or handed down to those who left
before their time, no money to buy reserve their own piece of dirt. I am pretty
I can speak for my family that the last time any of us stood inside that church
was when I was twelve and we put my grandmother right outside that door.
I remember that day like yesterday, the wailing,
the screaming “Oh mother, oh sister, oh, oh, oh.” Yes and there I was in a
matching pant suit with a piece of lace tied in my hair just like she would have
done had we not been putting her to rest. I remember being so angry at all of
the grieving going on around me. How dare they all ask for God now? Where were
they in the past five years of her life when she belonged to me?
“You
don’t say? I am not sure I remember that time, but I do remember being in beehives
and that horrible sash. Ahh the memories of being Pentecostal”
Another nod, even bigger smile.
Yes, talk about Holy Rollers. It was my church of
choice when I was even younger than twelve. Something about all that whooping
and hollering, and raising of hands that went on you were bound to feel
something even if you didn’t want to. If you haven’t caught on by now I’ve had
a small stint with most religion. There was Catholicism, and Church on the
Rock, and any mom and pop church my aunt might have found. I’ve always stayed away from Baptist though, and
not for some awful reason mind you, I just never knew anyone to tag along with.
I was young and wanted to feel like I belonged
somewhere and if you can’t belong in a house of worship than where can you? This
all lends of course to my strong feelings on finding God when life has thrown
you the not so perfect pitch. It’s not just my family that has this issue. I
think we as a society have it and there might come a day when I’ll have it just
as well.
It never seems to fail that when people are
afraid, lose a loved one, get sick, or need to hit the lotto they find God one
way or the other. Somehow they never feel bad for asking for what exactly will
make them feel better. I have no recollection of finding God because it was
Tuesday and they had nothing better to do.
“Yes,
I know I lied about going to Church on Halloween, yes I know it was wrong. I
was sixteen for heaven’s sakes; at least I was in a place of God. I mean a
cemetery on Halloween is still a cemetery even with a bunch of buzzed
teenagers.”
I struggle at times with my own finding of God,
and if I found God in that Mormon Church or if I was just trying to belong to a
family and be loved. The fact that I would be one Elder Prahl’s first baptism
of his mission might have played a part as well. I mean who forgets their
first, and that just plays right in to my over achiever side. I always want to
be first.
As I listen to them ramble on I fight the urge to
speak up and tell them exactly what I’m telling you now. If prayer and bible
thumping paves the way then why do they always say, God will do what is best.
Isn’t that an oxymoron? If he’s going to enforce his will and on his own terms,
why all the ass kissing so late in the game?
I nod, I smile and I shake my head. I keep waiting
for it; the question that I know is going to come out of one of their mouths
sooner or later. The one question that is going to test me and my mouth to say
the polite thing instead of screaming from the rafters that if you haven’t
visited God in 40 years and he hasn’t sent you a personal invite, you might not
be missed.
I glance at the clock and wonder if I’ve spent
enough time smiling and nodding to be released for this hellish conversation.
My cheeks are a little tight, and my neck is starting to ache so I must be
close, and then it happens. It happens so quick I totally am caught off guard,
and have replied so fast I can’t believe the words have come out of my own
mouth.
“Crystal
are you coming with us this Sunday, you don’t even have to wear a dress?”
“Sure,
I’d love to.”
I bow my head.
God, when you see me on Sunday know that it was my
total constraint and effort in not being blasphemous that got me in your front
door and cut me a little slack, I’d appreciate it. I won’t be there trying to
find you I am only trying to make sure I still belong somewhere; even if it’s
with the family I still haven’t decided I like.
