Grief, Part 1

My mother, bless her heart, always tells me to “drop to my knees and pray” when I’m upset or angry. She believes in the power of God, a mysterious invisible character we’re taught to believe leads us through life, placing obstacles in our path and guiding us through the good and bad times of every day.

I had a solid belief in God. A proud member of the United Church of Christ since my earliest of years, I spent many Sundays (and choir-rehearsal Wednesdays) at our local church. My mother, the congregation choir director, was a prominent figure in our church, friendly with even the cursed of congregation members. As a young child, I grew up in our church, babysat by awkward teens who would develop into mothers of their own, bouncing from surrogate grandparent to surrogate grandparent at each sermon. The church became a second home, a source of comfort for me.

I continued my faith throughout my school years, faithfully arriving each Saturday morning for two years in order to fulfill my confirmation duties. My classmates, an assortment of misfits from local schools, joked and snickered when we practiced for our formal confirmation ceremony at the closing of the confirmation studies. Our wine “glasses”, they teased, would work perfectly for shots of alcohol after confirmation. I gathered we weren’t the first to figure this out.