He drank heavily before his diabetes diagnosis, he swore; he did not seem like a godly man so the designation as a hardcore Catholic did not sit with me. At any rate, when he died I lashed out at God with a fury like no other. I was inconsolable--my main man was ripped from my life or so it felt. I spent every summer with Granddad. I knew his habits, his clothes, his soap. I became intimately aware with the mixed scent of Vo. 5 Shampoo and moth balls.
I could wax on and on about granddad and in fact have written a piece about him available on my Deviant art account (www.poetic-pontification.deviantart.com) . To get back to the point.
It took me a long time to realize why I was angry and who I was angry with. I was angry at losing my one ally in the mess I perceived to be my life. My parents remember a very different childhood than I do, but in the end I was unhappy regardless of either of our perceptions. I was only happy with granddad because he was as a big a grump as I was. We hated the same people (in the way old people and young people hate others) and that was all that mattered to me. I cannot say if I have sugar coated my memory (my dad seems to think I have) but I knew I was happy there. I lived on sugar, spaghettios, and chocolate malts. I lived on pure energy and spite to be spastic when my father took me home.
When granddad died I lost my ally, my favorite person, and I rested the blame with God. Granddad was struck with a series of illnesses designed to kill younger men than he. He had a military funeral and a Catholic service. To this day, I do not know what it was called.
I've been to church many times before. I've been to my local Catholic church more time than I can count due to an ex-boyfriend's overzealous family's attempt to convert me. I didn't believe diddly squat then about God. I hated him, which I suppose was an admission of his existence.
I began to realize I hated the God portrayed by man, by dogma, by other people who do not necessarily know what they are talking about. My boyfriend (who is Catholic) readily admits he does not have the answer to my questions. I have apparently inspired him to be more vigilant about his bible studying. I inspired myself to read the dang book myself. The pages are unbearably thin, there are well over 1000 in the new and old testament combined. I can guarantee I will be made very angry by Leviticus and probably other parts. I was already pissed by Genesis. Lot is great big prat and yet it is his wife who suffers. Lot, who tries to barter with God's (or God's angels, same difference to em) decisions because he cannot be bothered to travel all the way to a mountain. Yet his wife is a pillar of salt. And then for reasons I cannot fathom his daughters get him drunk and purposely get pregnant by him. If anything, I think the three survivors should have gone down with Sodom and Gomorrah.
My point, in all the rambling, is that over time I came to a truce with God. I would not say I love him because I cannot love what I have not fully forgiven, but I no longer hate him. I also think the Catholic pageantry is ridiculous as well as Christian's obsessive need to capitalize "He" and "Him". I get capitalizing "God" because that is his name. I know if is a sign of defference and what not, but the only being that should care at the end of the day and I am sure he can read your heart whether or not you dip your knee before entering a pew or if you capitalize "He" and "Him". I think my prayers are worth the same as anybody else's regardless or what trinkets or what dances I do. I don't feel the need to prove my belief in his existence to any mortal man, and I do not see why I should be judged for it. In fact, I find it hypocritical that anyone should judge me about my relationship with God. I don't know it by heart, but I know there is a part about removing the plank in your eye before you accuse me of a splinter of some such.
In short, I bought a bible and I am reading it.
