The Religion of Two

Two conversations, one topic, and two very different endings: Religion always sits heavily in my heart and top that off with a grandmother and her sister who have two strong but varying ideas on the topic and each liking to talk to me about it, one could see where my mind would be wandering around in this pit of confusion.

My grandmother’s house is a very familiar place. She raised me with my grandfather for the first few years of my life. They became like parents and so this house is the one constant, the one place I can always find comfort, the one place I can actually call home if I had to pinpoint someplace to call “home”. On this very specific day though, I did not feel home and I couldn’t wait to escape the small confines of the house.

I was perched with my legs curled up underneath me on this one squat, square chair. Its canvas covering was rough, white and covered in pink and green flowers. It has an old time feel with its little wooden legs sitting upon coasters to keep it from scraping along the wood floors. It held me pretty perfectly, the sides tucking my legs in tightly, the back keeping me hunched into one of my knees. It created a protective space during this tense conversation.

“God gave us all free will,” her voice is the warm, lower alto tone it always is. It’s soft and slow, coaxing me into belief.

I’ve been in the room plenty of times so I know what rested behind me. That particular wall was covered in wood. Us children were always warned to be careful if we touched it and my grandfather became very good at removing splinters. It never hurt when he did it. His big hands were very gentle, like my grandmother’s voice. On that wood wall were perched pictures and hangings. All of them were a religious person of some sort, or a prayer, or a verse from the Bible. The idea of Catholicism suffocated the room. Normally it was a relief, another familiarity and a piece of my grandmother. That day it was judgmental. I could feel the eyes of saints, of Mary, of Jesus beating down on me as I sat underneath it all.

Most of all, there was this one picture that I could picture looking down at me with disappointment as my grandmother watched with hopeful yet confused eyes. This picture of St. John is done completely in words, in his Gospel. The letters are laid out in ranging colors of grays and blacks creating the illusion of a picture within the words. Normally, I admire the work- John with his hands raised in pray with light washing over him.

“God loves us, sweetheart. God loves you. He gave us free will because of his love.” My grandmother’s hand is resting on the Bible next to her, the encasement a deep green like evergreens, with some pretty floral design surrounding an inspirational quote.

I feel like John is now looking down on me, in his pray like state, praying over my lost and questioning soul. He’s praying for my misunderstanding of God’s work in the lives of humans. I don’t understand how free will can be given to us by a loving being. If he also knows all that has happened, is happening, and will happen how could a loving being really allow such a world to exist? I refuse to either believe in this idea of “God’s Time Sense” or that there is a God whom actually judges the course of someone’s afterlife. The two do not match up for me and I try desperately to explain this and to understand why the church is teaching me this.

“What about Lucifer, Ma?” I ask gripping at the arm of the chair, the rough canvas biting into the flesh of my fingers uncomfortably. “He was God’s right hand. And I thought angels didn’t have free will. Isn’t that why Lucifer was mad? And if God forgives all why is there Hell, and why can’t Lucifer be forgiven? He was an angel, he’s just upset. God could forgive him.” I could feel tears welling up inside of me. I suppose in a way, I felt like Lucifer. I romanticize him for myself. Someone lost, longing for love from something he didn’t find so loving. Jealousy, I suppose. He and I both felt jealousy? Maybe.

“Angels have free will. The Devil was jealous of God’s love for man. He is evil and won’t be back to Heaven. He doesn’t want to be back there with God. He doesn’t like God.” She explains all of this in a heartfelt tone. I know she believes in what she speaks very faithfully. She has her specific doubts but she is a faithful woman, something I cannot be.

I start to cry. I actually start to cry. I don’t know why but it all seems so backwards to me. God doesn’t seem loving if he can turn away his favorite angel and never let him back. How could God allow free will when he knew that there would be so much evil and pain in the world? How can he send his beloved children to Hell because they crossed the line or never had access to Jesus and the Bible?

“But how do you know? Lucifer could be sorry, he could want back.” I wiped at my eyes, furious at the weak state I’ve allowed myself to fall into with this conversation, angry at the pain that it is bringing to me.

My grandmother shifted forwards in the chair, taking her hand from the Bible, but she doesn’t leave the green rocking chair. “Why are you crying, Raine? What is it about the conversation that get’s you so emotional?” She asks, her voice slightly elevated in this way that suggest we are getting to something about my confusion on religion.

How do you go about telling your grandmother that at this point in your life you can relate more to Lucifer than to God? Well, I still don’t know how to tell her this. At that time, I certainly couldn’t voice it. I shake my head and look at the rocking chair.

The old green chair held me through so many things. One of my favorite pictures is when I was a baby; my grandfather is holding me close, rocking me to sleep in that chair. It’s about protection. When I’m upset I know I can find this chair, sit in it and find a connection to times I was rocked to sleep or comforted in it when I was crying. It holds so many memories and I don’t want this one linked to it. But this moment will change my feeling for the house and for the chair.

“I don’t know. I just don’t understand.” I brushed more tears away and grabbed at tissues to occupy my hands. My legs unfurled from the chair and my grandmother finally stands. We don’t come to any sort of conclusion.
She just wraps me in her arms and hugs me tightly. “I love you,” she responds. I know there is comfort in her, in this house, and the chair despite my anger at religion. Still, I feel distant from this place, even now. It is still home but it holds an eerie feel of distance.

Her sister’s home is no less distant but that is because of the distance I’ve had with my Aunt Elizabeth. She was always very different from the rest of her family. She’s left-wing, vegetarian, animal rights activist and a lesbian. I suppose this defines her as much as saying my grandmother is a right-wing, meat eating, animal lover and heterosexual.

Aunt Elizabeth is also “new age” though my grandmother tries daily to save her soul and bring her back to the church. I suppose this is part of why I won’t tell my grandmother I’m not a Catholic.

Sitting in my Aunt’s house is much different. There are three cats that lounge around on all but one couch. Lights in the shape of chili-peppers line her doorways and windows. Plants are growing in every corner, on every side table and even part of her counter. She dresses in plain jeans, a t-shirt about beer and a heavy, plain, dark blue sweatshirt.

Her walls have old paintings on them and her house is filled with many of her mother’s old things. Though she’s always spoken of her family in anger as they did not accept her for who she was, she has a tender place for her mother and I like this about her. I guess I look for a connection with her because I feel how unloved she feels. I get that feeling about myself at times, though it’s not true. I get it in a religious sense where as she is content in her spirituality. Her feeling of lack of love is with the family.

Anyway, we sit on her couch, facing one another, a beer in my hand, wine in hers and we talk about religion. “I had to listen to Ma and Papa tell me how all Pagan religions are made by the Devil and those that follow are going to hell,” I say lightly.

She scoffs and takes a gulp of wine before setting the glass down. “Yeah, I don’t like when she says stuff like that. It makes me want to just come out and say that I’m Pagan.”

I nod and look around. Pumpkin, the overweight tabby on a diet looks a little fatter. I smile and shake my head. “I want to tell her I’m not Catholic but it will become a new hobby to return me to the Church.”

We both laugh and sit back, enjoying the easy talk. It isn’t tense here even though there is no connection to her apartment, for either of us. Neither of us wants to live in New York and we talk about my moving after college. There I will be able to indulge in my spiritual beliefs a lot more and of course, my Aunt approves of this.

“Come here,” she says to me at one point, setting her empty glass down and looking towards the back of the house.

I set down my half-empty beer and follow after, my bare feet slipping easily through the short carpet. My curiosity peeks as she opens the door to her bedroom. She’s a very private person so having me step into the confines of her own room is big. I watch her go to what looks like a little handmade jewelry box.

Her voice, oddly rushed, breaks the silence of the house. “I haven’t really written my will yet but when I die and people go through my things I want you to know where these things are.” She looks back at me with a soft smile.

My breath sticks in my throat so I can only nod. I did not expect this conversation to come up during my visit. Always full of surprises, my Aunt. She trusts me, perhaps because I listen to her without judgment. It seems to be what she’s looking for and I find this spiritual connection, an easiness of humans and the world flowing through her place. It makes me comfortable as I watch her pull out a pouch. She empties the contents in her hands, holding out rocks, crystals and carvings.

“I know you’re into the new age things as well and this is where I keep my healing crystals and the like. I want you to have them because I know you’ll appreciate them.” She smiles at me and dumps the contents in my hands. “See, I keep them here so when I die you can take them. Not now because I like them, but when I die.”

I’m not sure where her obsession with death has come from but it is recent and new. Perhaps because of some of the older people she works with have passed on. There has been quite a few deaths among our family and friends lately. “They’re beautiful,” I tell her and I can feel good feelings between the two of us. She shows me many things above her bed, kept hidden and yet right in the open.

There is no talk of will, hellfire or judgment here and I like that. It makes sense, what we talk about. It’s all about humans making a difference in the world because they know it is right and because they don’t want to hurt one another it’s not all of that due to wanting to get to heaven.

My grandmother told me once that she needs the idea of an afterlife so that her life here has purpose. For me, the idea of an afterlife takes away from the meaning of life on Earth. I want to live for this life, not for another one I have little or no control over. This life matters, this is where I will help others, this is where I will do most good not sitting on some cloud looking at gold streets and listening to harps play in the background.

I just don’t want to tell my grandmother this and take away her peace. Her religion gives her meaning, so does my spirituality. It is good where it is, I think.

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