The wind chime rang as I sat in the carved out seat in my hot tub this morning at our home in West Virginia, the pew for my church this Easter morning. I tried to let the trees, birds and wind quiet my mind. After my husband’s bout of Shigella Sonnei, my son’s first home game, packing for the weekend, pulling off my first book launch and then staying up all night with my daughter who began throwing up every hour, on the hour, I forgot about Easter.
Even though I never developed the faith my Catholic grandmother or Lutheran mom and stepdad so dutifully displayed and lectured me about, I’ve always believed in something. This morning I am curious about a weird guilt that lingers in the form of supposed to’s and shoulds about Easter, church, and God.
So while the world does Easter this morning, I’m happier to sit in the trees and think about religion. My grandfather died on Easter. I think he planned it that way. Most of the time he thought he was God anyway.
I imagined I would stop by CVS and get little baskets for the kids (teenagers) who still love surprises like that. I had a couple moments of flashing to childhood dinners, as big as Christmas…Easter was the other obligatory church day. If we went to church then we would get to come home to baskets and egg hunts and stuffing our faces with way too much food. Part of me feels bad that tonight’s dinner will be whatever we have in the cupboard because I haven’t had time to go “special” shopping.
One morning when Jonathan was five, probably my last obligatory church, I got him up and attended sunrise service with our local Lutherans where he was baptized, a half mile from the house. I mostly enjoyed the fact that there was barely anyone there, and that I was up early enough to see the sun peek above the skyline. I’m not sure he knew why we were there.
Nature has always been my church. I have faith in what I feel there. I am held by a presence of something greater than me, that I can let go in. I’ve heard God described this way. And I know she is in the trees too. There are no rules in this community. No judgement. No obligations.
Yet there is still a small feeling of “bad girl” as I sit here, while everyone else is in their Sunday best. Today there is some “Bad Mom” on top of it. No baskets. No egg hunt. Just cleaning up the barf smell from the carpet. I know it’s a fine excuse, but there is something deeper.
I no longer wish to feel any guilt for the choices I make that make sense and make me happy. As I floated alone this morning I thought of creating a new family holiday. I imagined calling up to ask them to join me in the tub, and them each taking their seat with me in my church. I imagined smiles and laughter and the joy of being together. I imagined a celebration of our family. But I didn’t call up.
I worry about what my kids will say if someone asks, “What do you believe in?” Maybe they will feel bad that they don’t have an answer. I like to think that they feel the presence I feel. The knowing that they are held in a kind of love that only something bigger can provide. I like to think that they spend every day knowing that they are here to explore that love. Not just a couple days a year.
I don’t mind that they will have to find their own faith. I don’t mind that I didn’t push the “right” one on them. Their journey will be important. I know that they are watching the way I navigate life and learning how they think they should do it. I hope that some day, they feel what’s right for them and realize the way I did it was just the way I did it.
As far as Easter, and God and church…I believe and celebrate a little differently, but with no less passion or commitment than Grandma. What I think doesn’t matter as much as how I feel.
Today I feel grateful. Today I am love.
