Jillian Hagerty, “Questions of Religion”

 

When I was little, I didn’t understand death. The idea of someone being there one moment, then never seeing them again, was too hard for me to grasp. When asked, my mom explained it as, “People going to sleep and never waking up again.” This did not sound too bad because naps were a wonderful anticipation, even if the kids in my class disagreed.

My dad told me, “It’s the end, kiddo.” When I asked what exactly it was the end of, he sighed and replied, “Everything, kiddo.”

When I grew a little older, I dared ask my brother. “People stop breathing and shit. Then, they go to fucking Heaven, John.” Charles wasn’t supposed to curse, but he was at the age where it was the cool thing to do, so he did. I quickly told him he shouldn’t be cursing, and he responded even faster with various threats he would fulfill if I ratted. So I kept my mouth shut and didn’t wake up with dyed hair or sharpie on my forehead.

In many households, I have grown to know, this behavior would be unacceptable. Children would be punished in some way for their misdeed. In our house, we just had to spend some extra time at church, and pray for God’s forgiveness.

We went to church a lot, since my mom was raised very religious. My dad also grew up religious, though not nearly as much as her. I suppose that when they married, she pulled him into her spiral of worship. We prayed for everyone and everything, which is how I learned about death.

Aunt Carolyn was not my favorite aunt, but I was relatively smart and when I realized that Mom had been making us pray for her the last few times we were at church, I realized something had to be wrong.

I was right. Lung Cancer. Stage four. Likelihood of survival: slim to none.

We went to visit her many times during my third grade fall break, much to my dismay. The hospital’s bright lights were dizzying and the smell reminded me of getting shots, so needless to say: I hated it. The fact that Aunt Carolyn ignored my existence while I was there did not help. Everytime we saw her she would say she was fine, complain about the staff, the food, or her aches, and then ask for a cigarette. I told her those weren’t good for her and she ignored me everytime. Everytime my mom left she said she would be praying for her. Everytime, without fail, my aunt would ask, “What good will that do?”

Though I don’t remember the funeral, I do recall that that fall break was the one where the idea of death finally made sense to me. I recall asking my mother if Aunt Carolyn was going to Heaven, as we drove back home. Mom said she was, despite her faults, because God’s forgiveness was infinite and good.

Reflecting back on my childhood, prayer was a fundamental aspect of our lives. I can’t recall what was said, but I can picture the way my mother sat up straighter, how my brother would roll his eyes, and my dad would pull my sister onto his lap. Prayer was something that we spent so much time doing, that my mom began dealing with our problems or news by telling us to, “Go have a conversation with God.” When I was 13, my 8 year old sister burst into my room and nervously curled my bedsheets in her hands, until I had to yell at her to speak. She confided in me, first looking around for our maternal parent, that she did not understand Hell. I laughed, until I saw that she was being completely honest. I then, with easy certainty, told her that Hell was for the worst of the sinners. She paused, nodded, and left my room.

At dinner, she broached the subject again. When my mom gave her nearly the same answer as I, she took a bite of broccoli and pushed on. “But shouldn’t God try to help everyone be better? Not doom the people he decides not to help?” She asked it with such childhood innocence, that my dad smiled between bites of food.

My mother’s expression turned sour and I am sure mine did as well. My sister’s words were strange and intriguing and they frightened me. I spent the following day with my sister, after her soccer practice, in church, praying. Beatrice prayed, under my mother’s instruction, for guidance as she doubted the Lord. I prayed to understand her question better.

My freshman year of college was full of finals, bible studies, excitement, and underage drinking. Charles and I became closer, because we finally had something in common once again. I talked to my parents at least once a week, and I prayed whenever I got the chance. But somehow, in the rush of the year, Beatrice became a blurry memory. Though I prayed for her often, I talked to her less than I saw her.

At the beginning of the next school year, I got a call from my delirious with grief mother, who told me that my sister was dead. I blinked and said, “Oh.”

I can only guess is that she was depressed, though perhaps that was a given, since she purposely overdosed on pills from my parent’s medicine cabinet. I don’t know why she did it. I don’t know what was going through her mind to lead her to do this. I never will.

My parents were no help. Lovely they may be, but also useless. My dad would always listen but never knew what to say, and Mom would never listen. Emotions weren’t something she was supposed to deal with. Her philosophy was always: go talk to God. My sister had no one to talk to, no one to give her advice, only a quiet entity who couldn’t be seen or heard. Someone who could only listen and judge. She was all alone. It was at this moment that I began to question my beliefs.

Before the funeral, when we were all at home, minus one, we tried to converse around her absence. This quickly proved to be impossible. My dad left the room, under the pretense of work. We all knew it was to pour himself a glass of wine. He was taking her death the hardest. The combination of grief and guilt will do that to you. He blamed himself, and as was our way, we didn’t deal with it. We simply hoped God would. This had already killed one of us, but habits were hard to break. Even harder if we had no desire to break them.

After my brother walked out the front door to hide his tears, my mom and I sat together in front of a blank television. I told her that I was praying for Beatrice. That I hoped she was in peace up in Heaven. Mom gave me a bewildered look. “Those who commit suicide don’t go to Heaven, John. She’s with the devil now for her sin.” Then she walked upstairs to her room, and read the Bible. I kept staring at the screen, in hopes it would give answers to the confusion I felt.

I spent hours in church, after the service, begging for it not to be true. Begging for her to be in God’s paradise. I don’t know if he heard me, but it comforted me. Was being unable to endure suffering truly a reason for being sent to Hell?

I spent the year and a half before the next big family crisis trying to better understand God and the church’s opinons of suicide. I did not get far.

Charles came out by bringing his boyfriend to Christmas dinner with no forewarning. When Mom realized this man was dating my brother, she kicked them both out. It was a lonely family dinner. Only my mom bothered to fill the silence.

My parents and I went to church the next day and I listened as she asked for the Lord to help guide Charles back to the correct path. She still does not talk to him but she does send him daily bible quotes, website links, and text messages in hopes of “turning him straight”. My brother does not block her messages, nor does he respond to them. He just reads and then goes about his day. It’s a particular strength that I’m sure I would have possessed.

It took a few months, but in late March I worked up the courage to visit him. His boyfriend was kind and hard-working and perfect for Charles. As I got up to leave, the only sibling I had left pulled me in a hug and whispered, “Thank you. I know this was hard.”

And it was hard. The months leading to meeting the boyfriend were near impossible. I struggled with the question of if God truly loved everyone. I prayed for guidance. I prayed that I could trust my brother and his choices. I believe I chose correctly.

My parents are old now, but they go to church as often as they did when they were young. I think sometimes they forget they have three children, since I’m the only one they see. My mom looks down upon my gay brother and suicidal sister, but she also prays for them. My dad understands my sister’s predicament, and talks to my brother on occasion. He came to his wedding. He visits her grave. He is also still married to mother. Mom hides behind her prayers. It’s easier than changing the core of her beliefs