My mother and I believe in the same God. Go figure.
I was raised in the church, every Sunday, 9:30 to 1:00. But after high school I pretty much went when I felt the need, or sufficient guilt. As an adult I rediscovered the peace in a relationship with God. Shortly thereafter I found several church homes where a sense of belonging met you at the door. You know the kind. From the sway of the choir to the crisp whites of the usher boards, the charismatic sermons from a teaching reverend, these church doors are an extension of feeling at home. Until I moved back home.
Technically I wasn’t really home. I’d moved from the sunny beaches of Los Angeles to another coastal city, Atlanta. Seven and a half hours from my parents. Close enough to see them, but far enough away so they wouldn’t drop in. Something they frequently did to my sister. In the wee hours of the night they’d get an urge to see my sister (in reality, their one and only grandson). So they’d go. And wait. Until she got up. Surprise!! Since Atlanta was more inaccessible and I had not given them a grandchild, unexpected drop-ins gave me no concern.
And before you think I screwed up referring to Atlanta as a coastal city, I know now it’s not on or near a beach (unless you count the ditch swill). But somehow because of a college trip where a great deal of the time was spent in the water (later determined to be Lake Lanier, a slow forty five minute jaunt from Atlanta), I had convinced myself “the black promise land” sat on the Atlantic Ocean. Atlanta, Atlantic. It worked for me.
For most of my adult life I had lived unencumbered. Before Atlanta, I had lived in Kansas City, Europe, and a second stint in L.A. All the while my parents grew older and slower. So gradually that it was unnoticeable until my dad became seriously ill.
He developed back and leg pains so severe he could barely walk or sit up. Stomach spasms, he had difficulty eating. It was a pancreatic tumor.
His doctor prepared us for the worst. Our father was weak. The pain had sapped his body. After surgery the doctor said it was cancer (he later denied the statement with the biopsy should benign). Pancreatic cancer is one of the more aggressive cancers with a low recovery rate. Images of Bill Bixby and Michael Landon flashed through my mind.
What could I say? During my growing up years, I was not close to either of my parents. Over the years, I saw no reason to change that. But a bout of adversity (translation, a man) had brought my father and I together. In a time when my life could not have seemed darker and more hopeless, my father, a person who I felt had never been there for me as a child, was there for me as an adult. He listened to my tears. Quietly balmed my pain. And unnoticed, guided me toward a light hidden deep inside my black tunnel. We bonded.
Conversations which previously had been perfunctory (“How you doing?” “That’s good.” “Okay, bye now.”) were now eagerly anticipated and full of “hey bud” and “I love you.” We still disagreed over a mountain of subjects, especially sports. A lot of water under the bridge was still clogging the channel, but we forged ahead. Gained a mutual respect for our accomplishments and perseverance. My father was my friend. And I was proud to call him that. Which made both of us more proud.
So to him there was nothing more to say. It had been said. Furthermore I knew without a doubt he did not have cancer. God had told me. At that moment the doctor spoke.
My mother seemed shocked (my interpretation).
Without regular church attendance my mother told me she thought I was an “atheist”.
Which had boggled my mind. How does nonregular church attendance translate to atheism? Why does regular church attendance say, “I’m saved, you’re not.” Humph, one thing I knew, everybody talking ‘bout heaven wasn’t going there no matter how many Sunday services attended.
Me, I regularly read the Bible. As well as the Torah and Koran. I took classes on Judaism and theology. Sang Episcopalian hymns. Chanted Buddhist mantras.
Even more I believed. I had an active growing partnership with God, Yahweh, Allah, Jehovah, whatever. I didn’t fear him. I didn’t tip toe in his presence. What I thought,
I told him. And he told me. In uncensored language.
I believed. That there were many ways to worship and no one religion had a monopoly on heaven, hell, reincarnation, or anything and everything in between.
I believed. That there was a power greater than me who could heal, did heal, had healed, and could/would again.
I believed. In synchronicity, fate, and a plan. Not everything was within my control and what wasn’t, …
I believed. That my search for a “religion” was not the path my mother had taken, but had led to the same source.
I believed my God was my mother’s God. Always had been. Always will be.
So for my father, to our father, we prayed together and alone.
Two dissimilar people. But for a moment, one similar God.
