Irreconcilable Differences?
My grandma told me this evening that if I talk to my half-sister, I mustn't say anything to weaken her faith in this difficult time. She almost didn't give me room to answer her concern, and I'm not sure she heard me much when I responded. Not that I gave her a full reply. What I said was that I would never do that, and that I know people need their faith. End of statement, full stop.
But what I wanted to say was: I know because I felt it once, and then all that certainty and strength was gone. In its place were questions that have only led to more questions. In its place was fear and wonder and a great humbling. It's enough to face the mystery of death, but another thing to sense the mystery of life. For a good while, I laid awake many nights, tormented with doubt and something very like terror - of existence, of not existing, you name it. Nothing I had learned could soothe me completely. Nothing I had experienced would suffice as a basis for extrapolation onto the whole of the universe. I'd had experiences I couldn't explain, but once upon a time, my faith explained them for me. I hadn't realized the structure into which everything fit until it wasn't there anymore, and I was left with pieces that only made partial sense. Most days, it seems insane to me that all of the order around me exists; neither religion nor evolution has satisfied the amazement that all of the puzzle pieces of all time fell together to create - this.
You never, ever know something the way that you do once you've lost it. You never appreciate something as much as you do when you know it won't always be there.
Take away faith? Does my grandma really think I would be the kind of monster who would do that?
Another item of interest: Grandma talked about her last marriage and said that she misses Grandpa Jerry, but she wouldn't want him back unless he promised not to go back to drink and smoke. I don't have a memory of the man without those two things in his hands; I don't believe he would want to return with such restrictions. But I saw where she came from and listened to her go on to say that Jerry would have heard the little voice in his soul tell him not to do those things if he came back, because he'd accepted Jesus as his Lord and Savior on his deathbed. (And forgive me for saying this, but I'm pretty sure he did that to cover his bases, and because he knew she would be so proud of it. We'll never know how well old Jerry would have been able to live with Jesus.)
And Grandma heard that little voice, of course, but I probably hadn't heard it, since I hadn't accepted Jesus.
"Yes, Grandma," I said, "it's called a conscience. You don't need a religion for one of those. I might not always listen to mine, but I've got one."
Later she said that I should pray for my father to change in drastic ways, to become the loving, generous man he should be - and I heard myself reply: "Grandma, I don't know that I can pray for my dad to be anything other than what he is." Of course, she thought I was wrong. She knows the things my father's done. She knows he doesn't call or write, not even on Christmas, no matter how good or bad I've been. She knows he never gave his franchise daughters a cent more than he was required by law to spend. She said that surely God hadn't intended for my dad to be that way.
And I told it as I saw it: "I think that God *did* mean for him to be that way." Oh, the instant fuss! "Grandma, I have learned a lot from having him as my father. I don't think I would have been able to do the forgiving and loving I have done without having to forgive and love him first." And no, that wasn't easy, but yes, it was worth it.
That gave her pause. "Well, then, I can see that," she said thoughtfully. "I know that wasn't easy. Maybe you've got a point."
One of the biggest sticking points I anticipate between us is that I do not believe a god of all creation - a god that embodies everything - can simply be a god of love. If anything, such a unifying force would know how to use misery and cruelty to far greater ends than us. We see only our own cross. God would see, after the fires, the fierce new growth of spring.
Not that I think we should hurt each other. Why make things harder than they are? Why take things we cannot create?
But it seems that part of our nature is negative and that such an inheritance can ultimately serve a purpose.
I won't steal faith, Grandma. But I am done praying for my father to be a man he's not.
But what I wanted to say was: I know because I felt it once, and then all that certainty and strength was gone. In its place were questions that have only led to more questions. In its place was fear and wonder and a great humbling. It's enough to face the mystery of death, but another thing to sense the mystery of life. For a good while, I laid awake many nights, tormented with doubt and something very like terror - of existence, of not existing, you name it. Nothing I had learned could soothe me completely. Nothing I had experienced would suffice as a basis for extrapolation onto the whole of the universe. I'd had experiences I couldn't explain, but once upon a time, my faith explained them for me. I hadn't realized the structure into which everything fit until it wasn't there anymore, and I was left with pieces that only made partial sense. Most days, it seems insane to me that all of the order around me exists; neither religion nor evolution has satisfied the amazement that all of the puzzle pieces of all time fell together to create - this.
You never, ever know something the way that you do once you've lost it. You never appreciate something as much as you do when you know it won't always be there.
Take away faith? Does my grandma really think I would be the kind of monster who would do that?
Another item of interest: Grandma talked about her last marriage and said that she misses Grandpa Jerry, but she wouldn't want him back unless he promised not to go back to drink and smoke. I don't have a memory of the man without those two things in his hands; I don't believe he would want to return with such restrictions. But I saw where she came from and listened to her go on to say that Jerry would have heard the little voice in his soul tell him not to do those things if he came back, because he'd accepted Jesus as his Lord and Savior on his deathbed. (And forgive me for saying this, but I'm pretty sure he did that to cover his bases, and because he knew she would be so proud of it. We'll never know how well old Jerry would have been able to live with Jesus.)
And Grandma heard that little voice, of course, but I probably hadn't heard it, since I hadn't accepted Jesus.
"Yes, Grandma," I said, "it's called a conscience. You don't need a religion for one of those. I might not always listen to mine, but I've got one."
Later she said that I should pray for my father to change in drastic ways, to become the loving, generous man he should be - and I heard myself reply: "Grandma, I don't know that I can pray for my dad to be anything other than what he is." Of course, she thought I was wrong. She knows the things my father's done. She knows he doesn't call or write, not even on Christmas, no matter how good or bad I've been. She knows he never gave his franchise daughters a cent more than he was required by law to spend. She said that surely God hadn't intended for my dad to be that way.
And I told it as I saw it: "I think that God *did* mean for him to be that way." Oh, the instant fuss! "Grandma, I have learned a lot from having him as my father. I don't think I would have been able to do the forgiving and loving I have done without having to forgive and love him first." And no, that wasn't easy, but yes, it was worth it.
That gave her pause. "Well, then, I can see that," she said thoughtfully. "I know that wasn't easy. Maybe you've got a point."
One of the biggest sticking points I anticipate between us is that I do not believe a god of all creation - a god that embodies everything - can simply be a god of love. If anything, such a unifying force would know how to use misery and cruelty to far greater ends than us. We see only our own cross. God would see, after the fires, the fierce new growth of spring.
Not that I think we should hurt each other. Why make things harder than they are? Why take things we cannot create?
But it seems that part of our nature is negative and that such an inheritance can ultimately serve a purpose.
I won't steal faith, Grandma. But I am done praying for my father to be a man he's not.