And that brings me to tough topic #1.
Faith/religion/God/"Higher Power"/whatever you choose to call it
I got to thinking about how many Christian music CDs I had, and how I didn't recognize much that was on the radio anymore. I used to buy the new WOW cd of the year each time it came out, and it occurred to me how long it had been since I listened to that kind of music. That made me a little bit sad. The truth is, I listen to whatever everyone else wants to hear. It's been a long time since I listened to what I wanted to hear. We play some of my music at home, but it's intermingled with a thousand-plus songlist on random with B's music. When we're in the car, since he's nearly always driving, we listen to the stations that are somewhere in the middle ground, that we both agree on. If 50% of the music is middle ground, that means that I'm missing at least a quarter of what makes me, me. (And so is he, as well.)
Lest you think this is a husband-bashing post, please let me say that it emphatically is NOT. But that little twenty minute drive made something clearer to me. If the songs on the Christian radio make me want to cry, I know that I'm hungry. There's something inside of me that cries out that I'm still not whole... there's still a whole quarter of me missing. It's not the music. That's just the window in. I'm missing the Father. I'm grieving, and I've been tuning that feeling down for so long that it shocked me when I allowed the volume to come up.
B's not overly religious. We have spent the last year halfheartedly, sporadically, doing church visits, to see if we can find a place to light. We feel like the three bears: Too big, too small, too contemporary, too stodgy, too 'produced'. There just doesn't seem to be a place where we fit in. I like contemporary services and music; he comes from organ music and thunder in the pulpit. And underneath it all, I get the feeling that he's only going because of me. But he's trying, God bless his heart.
I know that it's hard for him; that he's angry with God. I'd be angry too - he's had his future taken away from him, and it can't be easy to make peace with. What kind of loving God would do such a thing? B's seen it firsthand... he knows how cruel the disease is, and he's afraid, and angry. And I can't blame him.
I guess I'm just from the other side of the fence. The one thing that sustained me through the dark, dark times in my life was faith. I really never had a father. I remember going in to a church for the first time in my adult life with my couple-month old baby in her baby carrier and my Goodwill clothes, sitting in the back row and trying not to be seen, because I had bruises on me that I didn't want anyone to see and I for heaven's sake didn't want anyone I knew to recognize me there. The pastor must have had a psychic moment, because I knew he must be talking straight to me. The sermon that day was about forgiveness, and the piece that sticks with me nearly twenty years later is what he said: The people called out to God for forgiveness, and they cried out to him "Abba.... father." And it broke...my....heart. There I was sitting there like some big goose, crying into a burp cloth, because I finally had heard what I needed to know: there was Someone out there, and He loved me, and I was going to be okay. And from that point on, as hard as it got (and believe me, it got a lot harder before it got better), when it was really bad I held on to that vision. Someday, I was going to leave this world and go to be with my Father, who would welcome me. In the hardest moments, I envisioned that picture - finally getting to lie my head on His lap, lying my burdens down, and closing my eyes. Feeling that hand on my head - the one that says "Everything is going to be okay." As broken as I ever was, I knew God could heal me.
I never did go to church much. My husband didn't believe in it, and I only got to escape every so often. There was no other place that I ever felt so peaceful, though. It truly got me through.
And then, after the years of hoping and praying and waiting... it happened. I got through. And now we're in this wonderful place of peace and joy and happiness that the 20 year old me could never have imagined. I have the most incredible partner in the world. I would do anything at all for him. But as with any relationship, we've had to make compromises. As compatible as we are, we aren't clones, and we come to this union with different needs and different traditions. Mine happens to include that relationship with God. I'm not 100% sure what his includes in that respect. We've talked very little about faith, but enough for me to get the gist that it's not as important to him as it is to me. It has been enough for me to know that he will go with me, be involved in church with me, if we find someplace we both are comfortable at. So far we've not found that.
I think the worst part is that I have such a hard time talking to him about that. For heaven's sakes - we can converse about the worst, most embarrassing and personal medical things in the world, but we can't seem to have a conversation about faith. And that's disturbing. I think the two biggest elephants in our room are late stage Parkinson's and belief in God. For some reason there's just a wall there that prevents real talk about where we are, what we expect, and how we can make our two approaches merge.
So, that leaves me feeling dirty every time I bring up my faith. I don't listen to Christian music. I waffle every Sunday morning, wondering if I should suggest trying another church when I know all he wants is to sleep in. At holiday meals, we say "Grace... ha ha!" when we should be saying grace... because few in my family believe, and those who do don't want to upset the ones who don't. In a way, I feel like I'm having an affair with God.
It must be an affair. It feels good. I feel loved and validated in my faith. It's something that has to stay hidden, because outside people would disapprove. And it's something I have to do without my husband.
Sometimes I feel like saying "Who do you think will be around to maintain my sanity when you are gone?" What happens when I'm crying the same anguish that Natalie Grant is singing -
Who told us we'd be rescued
What has changed and
Why should we be saved from nightmares
We're asking why this happens to us
Who have died to live, it's unfair...
The answer, of course is right there too:
This is what it means to be held
How it feels, when the sacred is torn from your life and you survive
This is what it is to be loved and to know
That the promise was that when everything fell, we'd be held.
How it feels, when the sacred is torn from your life and you survive
This is what it is to be loved and to know
That the promise was that when everything fell, we'd be held.
And it makes me grieve, because this life is too damn short, and if we are to believe in life after this one, I want him there with me as well. That life, not this one, will be our time. Peace, not Parkinson's. But how, without him? I'm selfish. I want it to be his faith as well. I want to know we're going to be together. Most of all, I want to lie my head on my Father's knee and look across to see B's on the other knee. I want that peace for him, and I want to come back home.
