Do you remember the day you baptized your child?
Was it with purpose? Was it because it was expected? Were you hedging bets on Pascal's Theorem to ensure a good outcome? Or did it simply feel right?
I want to tell you a story. Warning: it's going to sound cheesy at best, and delusional to my atheist friends.
When Jason died, we spent a day in a thick, desperate fog. Towards the end of that day, I looked at my beloved husband and said the most "duh" thing imaginable: We have to plan a funeral.
A dear, caring colleague happened to text me, almost within that same hour, to offer help with said funeral. He offered the ministry of his church, to help lay our child to rest.
In that moment, it was a convenient relief. One fewer thing that we had no idea how to do, taken care of.
That church treated my family as if we'd been members for decades.
We were welcomed. We shared stories of Jason that must have meandered into dead ends and cul de sacs. No matter. The pastor listened with grace and patience. The day of the funeral, that church fed more than 30 family members a wonderful, home-cooked meal and then opened up the church to say goodbye to our son. People we'd never seen came to love us and show their support. Cards arrived at our house from total strangers, but who were church members.
After the event, we were not forgotten. We were invited, embraced, loved, supported, checked on. I woke up two days after the funeral with a singular thought: I'm going to church today.
I don't know what God is supposed to look or feel like. I can only tell you that in a world in which I was convinced that God was a helpful opiate of the masses, I began to revise that opinion. I began to see His face reflected through the eyes of those caring individuals who were truly "walking the walk," and not "talking the talk." I relaxed my doubts, and opened up to the idea of endless possibility. After all, in a scientifically-supported endless universe, shouldn't that dictate endless possibility?
Then, I got lucky. On a cold night, walking over to the Sonic where my son bled out, I had a simple thought. Jason used to lose money walking over there, little curled-up dollar bills that slipped out of his loose skater pockets. I thought to myself, "God, I really, really wish I could just find one of those sweaty, hard-fought dollars...."
I looked down into the unmowed weeds, and in the darkness, the face of our first president, mangled in the folds of a one-dollar bill, stared up at me.
I can show you that dollar. It's in my coat pocket.
I haven't told many people this story, because I'm pretty sure they won't believe me. That's ok. It's not for them. It was a sign for me. A sign that I am loved, and Jason is loved, and that there are greater things on this earth and beyond.
I went back to church because it was the spot in which I last laid eyes on the body of my first-born.
I go every week because my tense shoulders drop, because I believe in love, and because it took an unthinkable tragedy to open my soul to..,. possibilities.
We baptized our last daughter there just a couple of months ago. It was a wonderful experience. The pastors who officiated our eldest son's funeral, welcomed our baby girl into the church. I hope her faith is strong and enduring, and that it carries her through all life's hardships. I hope that in times of joy, she gives back and helps those who are suffering.
But most of all, I hope she remembers what she told me after Sunday school two weeks ago: Mama, did you know God made me? He made everything. He made the skies and the oceans, and all the grass and trees. And then he made me. He put rainbows in my hair and made me perfect.
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