The Path is not Always Straight: Seeking a Resurrection of Faith
The church that I belonged to as a child was built on solid ground and my Dad was the pastor. The world had been created in seven calendar days and Jonah was swallowed by a real whale. I trusted that my Dad’s faith was strong enough that he wouldn’t be asked to sacrifice me as a burnt offering like Abraham had been asked to do with Isaac, and I was relieved that God promised that He would never again send a flood to cover the earth. I knew that Jesus loved me for the Bible told me so and my whole Lutheran family was going to pass through that narrow gate and be together forever. I was so sure of these things that the faith of my childhood sustained me through the unexpected death of my Dad when I was 17 and the long, debilitating illness that led to the sorrowfully anticipated death of my Mom when I was 21.
My faith grew up as a Presbyterian. I married, had two babies, and went back to church with a mission. I wanted my children, and everybody else’s children, to know the Jesus that I knew. I was tireless in my work with young people as they became teenagers. It was here that my growing faith became problematic. I felt compelled to teach that Christ’s love was boundless while my leadership was portraying a much more exclusive Jesus. My church family became increasingly conservative and I felt that the success of the youth program was measured by the size of their huddle in prayer. It was time for me to move on.
Kathy Biele called me in 1999 and told me that I was an Episcopalian and should come and lead the children and youth of St. Paul’s. Which is often the case in youth ministry, I learned more than I taught and received more than I gave. My communion with the people of St. Paul’s has been extraordinary. Ultimately, it was the time that I spent in fellowship with our young people that nurtured my maturing faith. I was finally able to own my beliefs based on a church of tradition, with an inclusive faith in Christ, and the use of God given reason.
Two years ago I took this grown up faith to rural Maine. I made a very intentional move to be by my daughter and know my grandchildren. My husband was to follow, and the last decades of our lives would be spent exploring a new part of the country with our family within reach. I felt God was near as I snow-shoed in the woods, kayaked on the lakes, and held baby Ada at will.
I didn’t see my sister Becky’s disease coming. She feared that she may have a form of Multiple Schlerosis, not as debilitating as the form our mom had, but still she was growing weak and losing the use of her left arm. It would be manageable, but it turned out to be worse.
She was diagnosed with ALS, Lou Gehrig’s disease, in May of 2008. Having been a hospice nurse for many years, and caring for several ALS patients to their deaths, I knew the decisions that this horrifying disease was going to make for her. My adult Christian faith unraveled overnight. A tsunami of oddly familiar grief overwhelmed and astonished me. I was unable to figure out how to be in two places at one time so I brought half of my heart back to Salt Lake to be near her. Becky mandated love, joy and humor as she declined and I did my best to honor that. I didn’t tell her that my faith in God was buried so deeply that I felt absolutely no comfort when I prayed. Instead, I read the devotions by her bed to her, and listened as she told me that her yearning to be with God and lost loved ones was growing, and easing some of the sorrow that she felt in leaving her family.
Becky died on January 23, 2010. I am trusting that she is with God. I know that I believed it when I told our youth that there would be times that God seemed distant or nonexistent, but was silently grateful that it hadn’t happened to me. Now my longing for God’s peace and grace is real so I hope that I still believe, while trying to figure out who I am if I am no longer the spiritual woman I was. Meanwhile, I have a new baby grandson named Logan. Becky will have a new baby granddaughter named Becca in July.
The church that I belonged to as a child was built on solid ground and my Dad was the pastor. The world had been created in seven calendar days and Jonah was swallowed by a real whale. I trusted that my Dad’s faith was strong enough that he wouldn’t be asked to sacrifice me as a burnt offering like Abraham had been asked to do with Isaac, and I was relieved that God promised that He would never again send a flood to cover the earth. I knew that Jesus loved me for the Bible told me so and my whole Lutheran family was going to pass through that narrow gate and be together forever. I was so sure of these things that the faith of my childhood sustained me through the unexpected death of my Dad when I was 17 and the long, debilitating illness that led to the sorrowfully anticipated death of my Mom when I was 21.