Whoa, it’s
Friday the 13th, the first one for this year. The 13th
has always been a lucky number for me. I met John on the 13th, we
got married on the 13th, our granddaughter was born on the 13th,
and there’s other stuff that’s happened on the 13th that’s buried
somewhere in the filing cabinet of my brain. Those are the important ones that
head the list.
Being superstitious isn’t something
that I am. I don’t worry about ladders, black cats, mirrors or anything else
that’s supposed to bring you bad luck. I do have to admit that in my youth,
whenever it seemed as though something awful was going to happen or was
happening, I’d immediately send prayers up to God. I eventually came to believe
that those prayers were just another sort of superstition.
I was raised Southern Baptist, but not
the strict kind that didn't allow dancing, makeup or stuff like that. I was sent to
Sunday school every Sunday and mom and grandma sometimes went to church services.
My dad never went, even on the holy days of Easter and Christmas. My grandma
and mom did definitely go those days.
What I remember most about those Easter
services was getting a new Easter outfit. A new dress, shoes, purse and even a
hat and gloves. Since I haven’t been to church on Easter in decades, I don’t know
if they still do that. The Easter outfit was more important to me than the Easter
candy. I sound pretty shallow, don’t I.
In any case, I was raised to believe that
God was good. My crisis of faith came in my late teens. It started with a photo
of a child on fire in Viet Nam. This was a small child and I felt so
heartbroken by the look on this child’s face. I questioned my parents and
eventually the clergy at the church. No one could provide me with a
satisfactory answer. If God was good, how could he allow such a small child to
suffer so? The answer everyone seemed to fall back on was, “God has his
reasons.”
It was at that point I stopped going to
Sunday school or church. With the exception of my own wedding, my eldest son’s
wedding and the weddings and funerals of other people, I haven’t been inside a
church or attended any services. I know it bothered my mom, but even her entreaties
to attend Easter sunrise services couldn’t sway me.
That’s not to say that when trouble comes,
I don’t find myself praying to God, i.e., “Please God, please, please, please….”
for whatever it is that I need to have changed for the better. I also know, even as I’m reciting the words
to myself, that if there is going to be any kind of a change, it’s up to me to
make it happen. God isn’t going to point his finger and fix whatever it is that’s
wrong.
I do find myself wishing, however,
that I hadn’t lost my faith. I know people who attend church, live the kind of
lives of which God would approve, and who practice the Golden Rule. To me they
seem stronger and more certain about their lives and their afterlives. Their
faith and church attendance appear to bring them a lot of comfort as well as comradery
with their fellow church members. There’s a sense of brotherhood/sisterhood in
those folks.
I find now that I’m alone, it would be
good to belong to such a group. My inclusion wouldn’t be based on my belief in
God, but the need for a sense of belonging, a sense of being part of something
larger. That’s not to say I’m going to get up on Sunday mornings and start
checking out the various churches in my area. It’s just something I think and
wonder about now and then.
What I will do today, though, is take
myself to the store to purchase a lottery ticket. After all it is my lucky day
and this might be the one time I could win something. I do know that when the
Sunday paper comes, before I check the numbers, I may silently be saying, “Please
God, please, please, please let me have a winner.”
Like I said above, pretty shallow aren’t
I?
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