My Relationship with God

"He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away." Revelation 21:4

I was born into a home with a mother who was Lutheran, a father who was slightly atheist, a grandfather who was Methodist. So to say I started my life out with a mixed bag of tricks would be fair. I remember my relationship with God being on of diversity, especially the first time I went to church with my grandmother in the U.P. That was an entirely different flavor, it is however when I fell in love with Latin.

I never identified as any particular religion, I just liked to listen to the theories that someone would tell me... then I would go on to the next. This relationship with God continued through college, when I learned to question the existence of God and what that existence meant to me.

It was in my Philosophy class when I looked up for the first time across the classroom and asked someone during a debate to prove to me that God existed. The debate took a turn I do not think the professor expected as I listed to people wage war against my questioning of their beliefs. He, however, gave me an A in the class when my response to them was this: "It does not matter to me if God exists or if He or She does not exist, I can never know the answer so therefore it does not matter." He had dubbed me Classroom Buddha, though he only called me it privately with a chuckle.

It was one of my customers at a local place I used to be a server at who got to learn of my darker side of religion. See, people feel so deeply that it becomes both a weapon and a tool. I was listening to a customer, who is a professed born again Christian who used to be a street walker (interesting phrasing there I remember quirking a brow at), who was telling another customer that Harry Potter was witchcraft and anyone who read it was going to Hell. I listened to her politely and continued to be neutral until she took my wrist. For those who didn't know me then or don't know me face to face now... I don't care to be touched by people I don't know or don't trust. So there this woman was, looking up at me and she asked a question which still echos in my brain today: "You are a good Christian Girl, aren't you?" Was I? Am I? It took me a moment of hesitation to finally respond: "It depends on your definition ma'am, I was raised Methodist, my father is Atheist, and my mother was Lutheran before we started going to a Methodist church. One of my closest friends is Jehovah Witness. I've studied a large amount of religions and decided I'm agnostic." She released me with a disgusted look on her face, saying in a tone: "Well I feel bad for your family, you're all going to Hell." I shrugged and while I was walking away added, "I read Harry Potter anyways, damned if you do and damned if you don't."  She never let me wait on her again.

It was a "man friend" of my mother's who I offended with my aloofness. He was what you would call a leader amongst his fellowship, he specifically was a Youth Leader for the teens amongst this group. Now, I'm an educated woman, I've read literature that others wouldn't bother with... I've read the bible... several different versions for curiosity, and while I can't spout out the passages and the paragraphs in context, I do understand the difference between our modern interpretations and King James Version.

Much like the woman I had offended before, he asked me: "Do you believe you are going to heaven?" I probably looked at him as if he had grown another head, but I answered still, "Yes. I believe I will go to heaven." I'm sure he thought he was doing some good thing by saying to me, "How do you know?"

I immediately felt my tension rise and considered his question. He didn't ask me what God meant to me, he didn't ask me my views, he was asking me what I thought my ticket to heaven was. So, I answered as truthfully as I could, "I wake up every day and try to be the best human being I can. I do no harm, I attempt not to judge, and I try to simply lead my life so if I were to have to answer for it, I can feel assured that I made the choices that were best for me."

Of course... this answer is wrong. And he vividly told me so, followed by a lot of reasons (I wasn't really listening) that unless I went to church and prayed for forgiveness, I was going to Hell. Frankly, my answer to him was colorful... I will not repeat it for the sake of my mother, but needless to say, he never talked to me or saw me again. I'm glad she's found someone else anyways... I didn't like him much.

And so my relationship to God comes full circle to my current situation. The Pastor who lead the memorial for Dominic was a comfort in his new age way of leading... he understood that what Frank and I are going through, a mother and a father losing their child so young or at all, is painful. He prayed to God with us to help people find the words to say to us or not at all... that we would be spared the difficult conversations.

The truth is... I don't believe God cares, per say, for our loss. I think two people in a world of sorrow and hate is too drowned out by the sounds. But today on a friend's Facebook, said the following status:

"If you need a prayer today. This very moment. Step out on Faith. Message me and I will pray with you today. If you NEED God's ear, for Him to listen and to MOVE in your life today. Message me. Today a window is open, there is no coincidence, stand under it before it closes."

Something about that status moved me... in both anger and relief. To the status I messaged him this:

"In this moment, I pray that God help me find the path to heal with the least amount of pain through it. That He hold my son as his own and keep him close as I cannot. Let my struggle be temporary and grant me forgiveness for my anger... I cannot understand, but I strive to move forward still. Amen."

I believe there is a higher power, by whatever name you choose to call It, that is there... that there is a heaven and there is a hell. I choose to believe that we might have multiple lives, depending on the circumstances before, that we get a chance as souls to try again. I believe that we all serve a purpose, though few will ever come to truly know what it is.

I do not believe my son's death was an act of God. I do not believe the things people say: "Everything happens for a reason"; "Heaven needed him more than we did."; "God has a plan."; "Perhaps something good will happen, God knows what he does." If you are one of the million people to say this to me, take no offense when I say... You need to stop. Please, do not put this tragedy in God's hands. If God took my son because he felt he was needed more than I did than I hate God like one could not fathom at the moment.

I am angry with God... especially when I see the careless tossing of life all over. Refugees fleeing countries, their children dead before their eyes. The crack-head mother who takes her children to a crack-house but CPS tells the concerned father "but at least she admitted it happened to us.... at least she can get help." My son his gone... other's spit on life while I would do anything for my son back in my arms. I am angry with God.

I think God understands. I think God is large enough that He can hold that weight upon his shoulders, where humanity cannot. I think God takes comfort in my mourning, it means the gift of Dominic he gave me was worth something, it mattered. There was a song that Frank picked out at the memorial I think was perfect, it spoke of he hope a mother had to see her child again. To hold him again. That there was a place God had made for them to be together again.

I still wake up every day and try to do right by humanity. I wake up every day a little stronger or a little weaker depending on what had happened in that day. I mourn loudly... I mourn quietly. I remember my son as I sing in the car, as I walk into my day to day, I remember everything.

I think back to that moment when they took him from my body. They had told me that I shouldn't be afraid... that he might not cry right away. My son, my beautiful son, he screamed before they even had him out. The sound was so beautiful to a mother... they laid him beside me while they worked to make sure I was okay. It was the only time he got quiet. I felt my soul move... to change so that my world tilted on axis and now, this little baby was mine, and I his.

My soul is missing a piece of it. I will never get it back. It isn't some kind of dream I can shake off. It's not something you can fix. It's not something you can see or touch. Everything seems a little duller now, and sharper other places. A piece of my soul has left, and I miss it so, I'm angry with God. I'm angry with people. I'm angry with myself. I'm angry with the silence in the room. I'm angry with the noise that won't go away. I'm angry. I'm entitled to it.

My relationship with God has always been an odd one. I hope He knows when he created me, he truly did create me in his image. This too I can endure, I know I can. I am thankful that God has given me the grace to stand tall even though I feel weak, to speak though I wish to whisper, to live even if I wish to stop, to reflect though I have lost.