All relationships are personal including the one I have with God

Going home.. home to my roots.  I’m not sure I’m ever prepared for the flood of memories that washes over me - those memories a sharp reminder of who I was and who I am and just how different life can be if I let it.

I grew up on a farm, the only daughter and oldest child of parents who worked very hard and played very hard. It was typical of most adults in the community. Mainly dairy farmers who grew crops for their livestock, the work never ended. But somehow there was time for play. Play for the children and play for the adults. It wasn’t unusual for the adults in my life to “let loose” and party while mindful that the cows would still need to be milked the next morning.

Smoking, dancing, alcoholic drinks - all of it were part of the behaviour of “the parents”. Not all the time of course but enough that it was not out of the ordinary. 

However what was also typical was that my family, along with most others in the neighborhood, ceased these behaviours on Sunday morning and went to the Baptist church nestled in a tall grove of trees two miles down the road. Sunday School for the kids, and then the whole family for the main service. The sins of the week temporarily forgotten. Over half the congregation could have half heartedly attempted to repent but what for - the same fun would be had the following week as well.

For that church, at the time my church, was a strict Baptist church and all the fun my parents and others had was against the church doctrine. And it didn’t take me many years of being told not to talk about anything that happened at home (or in the homes of family friends) to realize that hypocrisy ran amuck. That thinking about a living room full of adults playing records and dancing (and teaching me to dance too!) on a Saturday night was very, very bad Sunday morning. That the sips of Baby Duck sparkling wine that I was allowed as a child at my maternal grandparents house (my Mom was a Lutheran) meant that I was going straight to hell according to the Baptist preacher. What 10 year old kid wanted to go to hell? 

It was confusing. And I didn’t like it. At all. 

It would be safe to say that the overwhelming majority of people in the neighborhood knew what went on, even if they didn’t participate. Was there gossip? Yup. Finger pointing? Yup. But as long as everyone pretended to be pious Sunday morning (and times that the preacher came for a visit) then the behaviour was “tolerated”. 

Still, as a teenager, as I grew to form my own thoughts, opinions and ideas,  I began to question why there were differences between my church and the churches my friends went to. Why I couldn’t go to a “fun” church. 

That questioning got me into a bit of trouble as well with different preachers at the church. I vividly remember one preacher in particular, talking about how Catholics were heathens because they worshipped idols. And, he sniffed, the reward of entry into heaven wouldn’t be theirs. When I questioned him, however, he spoke in eloquent circles, not saying much of substance. It was very baffling to me especially since I went to school with Catholics and many were close friends. 

So, dancing, alcohol, smoking and belonging to a religion other than Baptist meant eternal damnation? Nope. Not buying it. 

I left home for college when I was 18. Moved away to a big city in the southern part of the province. Promptly forgot about attending church except for weddings, funerals and Christmas Eve. Met some wonderful people - people who would go out of their way to help if help was needed. I did not ask and did not care about their faith or if they had one. I did not care about their sexuality or if they danced, drank or smoked. All I cared about was if they were decent human beings based on MY set of rules. Respectful? Kind- to me and kind to strangers? Loving? Smart? Fun? 

If they were, they were welcomed into my life. 

As the years passed and my experiences in the world grew I never lost my belief in God. Spiritual? Yes. Religious- organized religion- no. I began to see God the way I needed to see him - loving, kind, merciful. I was taught that he is but then that principle got muddled up with man made exceptions. I can’t have it. In my mind he either loves us all or none of us. And, with that in mind, I knew I had to find my own relationship with God not one that was taught to me. I knew that like all relationships in my life this one, too would grow and evolve for the rest of my life. 

Religion was never an issue with My Favorite Husband and I. He was Catholic, although lapsed. Being both shift workers and people who didn’t attend church meant that being part of a church community wasn’t important to either of us. I had agreed to marry him in a Catholic Church but since one was not a available the weekend we decided to marry we wed in the country church my parents were married in - a Lutheran church. We received dispensation for him to do so. We never had kids so raising - or not raising them in a religion didn’t matter. And when he died, I buried him in a plot in a beautiful Catholic cemetary where I could be buried as well. A priest from the local Catholic Church said he was entitled to a full mass but I knew that he, like me, was disillusioned with organized religion so a few words, The Lords Prayer and a final goodbye surrounded by family were what he would’ve wanted. 

In the time immediately after his death, I did not seek solace in faith. I was angry with God right after he passed but, in fairness, I was angry with everyone including MFH and myself. The anger dissipated, as anger does, and I stopped railing at God for taking him. I found my way back to thinking that God was good, loving, kind. And the pain that banged at my heart was also the pain that freed him from a body that was ill. God knew best. 

I thought about all of this as I stepped foot into that church this past week for a funeral. The last time I was there was about 20 years ago - a few years after the funeral for my Dad. 

I thought about all of the kind, loving people from the community and from the church and that me grin widely. I thought about the few people who looked down their noses. That made me grin as well. I thought about the preacher who ran down Catholics and I wondered what he would’ve thought about the fact I was happily married to one for 24 years. That made me giggle - just a bit. 

Mostly though, the years have washed away the confusion and left behind clarity. I can be spiritual and have a relationship with God without a middleman. I am a good person by being a good person, living a life where benevolence, kindness, grace and gratitude are my moral compasses. 

It is said that being inside of a church can bring peace and for me going back to the church I grew up in that was true. It’s the peace I have found by living a life that’s true to me.