“God is great, God is good, let us thank him for our food. Amen.”
Holding hands with my best friend Olivia on my right and her father on my left, I sat at the dinner table before her mother’s cooking. Her father will squeeze my hand twice as we say “amen” in unison.
Jeff and Michelle fed me more times than I can count, and each time I recited that quick prayer at their table. I learned that prayer before I even knew why I was saying it. I learned quickly, and at a very young age, that religion was important in that household, more important than it ever was in mine.
I was raised between four households. Between my mother, my father, my grandparents and Olivia’s, I experienced religion in every extremity. It’s not that it was the difference between Lutheran and Christian churches or Catholic prayers at one dinner table with Baptist sermons at another, it was the intensity of each of them all that threw the younger me for a loop.
When we were young, you could bet Olivia’s entire family wouldn’t miss church; and, if I was sleeping over on Saturday night, you could bet I was going too. It didn’t bother me, as there’s nothing a kid loves more than a few extra hours with her best friend, even if it’s in a church playroom.
My father was the most relaxed. When I was younger, he’d try to get me to want to go to church, but after I protested, he didn’t usually push. When I got a little older, I remember rolling my eyes at him when he ended his short weekends with me by laying on his couch streaming Sunday church services on the TV. Joel Osteen, with his thick Texan accent, recited the word as my father played poker on his laptop. Not very religious, if you ask me.
Once I got to middle school, my mom and stepfather decided we were traditionally religious. Besides her dropping the “are you praying?” questions to me as I grew up, it was then that they found us a new church, which we attended pretty consistently for awhile. At the time, it didn’t seem unordinary, but looking back I think it was because they thought God could pull the devil — also known as clinical depression — out of me when I was at my rock bottom.
After attending this church regularly, Pastor Vern and the “elders of the church” asked the audience if he could pray for anyone. My parents quickly pressured me to go up there.
After what felt like an eternity of being surrounded by a circle of strangers shouting at me, I screamed that I could no longer breathe and felt like I was going to throw up. I wobbled out of the circle nauseous, sweating and exhausted. This was, in the eyes of my parents, some sort of exorcism. What a riveting Sunday for a 12-year-old!
For the most part, I’ve blocked that experience out of my mind. Whether it was a placebo, God or my Zoloft finally working, my parents and I both agree I started to wallow less.
My grandparents, who I adore more than anyone, provided me with a religious oasis. In their house, I had the option to participate or ignore religion. When they raised my mother and her sister, my grandfather worked closely with their church and proudly sent his kids to Catholic school. My grandmother, while never extremely religious, followed my grandfather. She’d play her part and attend regularly, a tradition that died as they grew old. He still doesn’t miss his Sunday service. My grandma doesn’t join him, but he doesn’t ask her to.
If I believe in anything, it’s the people that taught me how to have faith, not what type of faith to have. I don’t know where I stand with religion, I’m not sure if I ever will. Despite this, I believe that I’ll see my grandpa doing the sign of the cross whenever discussing his late brother. At my best friend’s house, I’ll believe in always praying over my dinner. I believe that my father stopped listening to Joel Osteen but doesn’t need it to keep his faith. I’ll believe that my mother has unwavering faith and will always thank God for “fixing” her little girl. I believe growing up was a religious rollercoaster.
I don’t go to church and I hardly pray, but I’ll always believe that the people I love believe in something, and that’s part of what makes them who they are. That’s one religion I can get behind.
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