Losing Faith

My mother sat my sister and I down in the family room on the old paisley couch and said with tear-stained cheeks and swollen eyelids, “Girls, I have something important to tell you.”  She took a deep breath. “Your uncle tried to kill himself tonight.”  

“Why?” I said, just 11 years old and more confused than shocked at the time.  My 8-year-old sister sat stiffly next to me, wide-eyed and staring at the circa 1970s wood paneling, not saying a word.  

“He was very unhappy...” she began, and paused. 

“Why?” I said again.

“We don’t know why, honey.  He was going through a rough time in his life.  He’s in the hospital now and we just have to pray.”

So I prayed.  I prayed and prayed and prayed my heart out. I asked that the path the bullet took through his body was not enough for him to die.  I remember being in the bathtub that night and begging fervently for God to hear me.  I fell asleep praying that night.

The next morning, I saw my mother’s face when she got the phone call and I knew the answer. 

That Sunday, I stopped going to church.  I didn’t care about the youth group, I didn’t care that all my friends were there, and I didn’t care that I was grounded for skipping it.  All I knew was that God didn’t listen to me when I asked for something important, and I was angry and hurt.  Somewhere along the line, I was taught in church that people who committed suicide went to hell.  And there was no way I was going to believe that my gentle, loving uncle was going to hell for his pain.  No way.

I'd rather be grounded forever.

It wasn’t until college that I found church to be a sanctuary of peace again.  I never went regularly, but I found the beauty of the Catholic churches in Cincinnati to be someplace I could go when I was feeling overwhelmed.  It didn’t matter to me that I wasn’t a practicing Catholic.  I was looking for a spiritual outlet.  And often, I could find it there.

When I traveled to Europe in my 20s, I was drawn to the beautiful cathedrals of Paris, and I walked through the naves reverently; silently.  I found Notre Dame to be as gorgeous as you might imagine, but I fell in love with St. Eustache, near Les Halles.  It's not quite as showy as Notre Dame or St. Peter's in Rome; not as colorful as Sainte-Chapelle.   Years later, I found myself chasing tiny chapels all over Rome, seeking Renaissance paintings and finding peace in each one.  I love the tradition of leaving a coin for a candle and lighting one in the name of a prayer.  I lit candles all over Paris and Rome in the several times I have been to both cities, lost in that moment every time.  I suspected that I was a shallow spiritualist and found God only in opulent beauty.  A strip mall church was never going to do it for me. 

During my separation and divorce, I prayed again, but this time for wisdom.  Before he left, I prayed for a resolution to the turbulent life I was experiencing.  I prayed for my husband to love me.  I prayed for strength.  After he walked out the door, I asked for mercy.  I asked for the courage to go on and love again, and I asked for help.  I came to the epiphany that my prayers had been answered, in a way.  My life was about to take a new turn for the better, but I didn't know it at the time.

Faith is very personal, and I don't want someone to sell me a new religion.  I don't want anyone to tell me that if I don't do religion a certain way, I'm going to hell.  No, thank you.  I ask a lot of questions about God and religion.  I read various books, speak to people from different countries and different beliefs about it, and even studied philosophy and religion in college.  It's a quest of endless fascination; it's also exhausting.  I occasionally envy those with a strong, unquestioning faith, because it seems easier.  To be sure that your way is the only way must be a source of content.

But this is my journey, instead.  Mine alone to take.

The God I believe in is forgiving.
Loving. 
Not prejudiced when it comes to color, or gender, or sexual orientation.
Wonders why we fight over the ways we believe. 
Would not tell a woman that she shouldn't be educated as much as a man.
Could not care less if we dress ourselves in a certain way. 
It does not matter to Him (or Her) if we call ourselves Baptist, Lutheran, Muslim, Mennonite, or Jewish.
Knows that people who kill themselves in pain don't deserve an eternity of hell. 
Wants us to love each other.  

I want to raise my son to believe in God; in a higher power.

I want him to learn about faith.  It is a powerful and amazing force.

I want him to believe in the power of good and eschew evil.

I want him to help his fellow man.

I want him to believe in love.  

That is my religion.

You may not believe the same things, and that's OK with me.  I'd love to hear about your journey as well! 




*All photos taken by me: St. Eustache, Notre Dame, and St. Peter's*