Deconstructing My Religion (Part 4)

Get Over It

Photo Courtesy of Pixabay

September 1974 to June 1975

Seven years old and in second grade, I was excited to hear my name called over the intercom. The school secretary instructed me to go home with friends after school. Arriving at their house, we ran off to play together. I wasn’t aware anything had happened out of the ordinary until my dad walked in with the preacher late that evening. Daddy pulled my brother Jimmy and me onto his lap while the preacher prayed. Turning to look behind me, I saw big tears rolling down Daddy’s face. Something was wrong but I wasn’t sure what. When Daddy and the preacher left, we kids were put to bed. I remember my grandparent’s arrival in the following days, and how I ran to meet my grandmother in the driveway. She scooped me into her arms and held me close. Still, no one told me what had happened.

Someone brought in a new dress, baby blue with little white buttons. There were black, Patton leather shoes and anklet socks trimmed in lace. I couldn’t take my eyes off the new clothes. I had never seen anything so beautiful. My clothes had always been second-hand or sewn by my mother. A pretty, new, store-bought dress with matching shoes and sox was a monumental event and I felt like a princess.

I vaguely remember playing with some children at the funeral home in Missouri and then sitting through what seemed to me a long service. My mother’s body was moved from Missouri to Mt. Olive cemetery on Lookout Mountain in Georgia for a graveside service and burial, but I remember nothing of how we got from Missouri to Georgia, I do remember the cemetery with extended family standing around the casket. Even grown men I had never before seen cry, were sobbing. I still didn’t understand.

Then, someone lifted me, and I could see my mother’s face in the casket. I stared at her because her hair was fixed differently and her makeup looked unnatural. It was then I realized my mother was dead and they were going to lower her into the grave and put dirt on top of her. My visceral reaction was intense. Someone quickly removed me from the scene.

The recession of the 1970s meant my dad was laid off from his job at Ford Motor Company. He worked for the farmer in exchange for rent on the land where we parked our trailer in the middle of a cow pasture. He and my mom were in the final stage of their move when the accident happened that took her life. While trying to move her horse, she found herself beneath it. Stepping on her head, the horse crushed her skull. After my mother’s funeral, my grandparents moved from Alaska to Missouri, and into the single-wide trailer to help care for my brother, and me.

I suppose after my grandparents moved in with us, I returned to school. I don’t recall a single day in class or anything I learned. I remember being sick and my grandmother trying to comfort me and I remember when she gave me a doll that belonged to my mother. The nine to twelve months after my mother’s death seem mostly erased from my memory.

I don’t know when my dad started dating, but nine months after my mom’s death, he remarried. Again, I was confused. The adults in my life never considered helping me understand the monumental events and decisions impacting my life.

2025 Reflections

“Give it to God and let Him fix it” was the cry from the pulpit in the churches we attended. Those suffering were too embarrassed or afraid to appear weak in their faith. As I began to express my grief, I was silenced by most of the adults in my life. All reminders of my mother were removed from our home, and we were not allowed to speak her name.

If a church denies the basic needs of members, including physical, emotional, and psychological needs, and even goes so far as to imply that those needs are a lack of faith, then the church is an abuse of power and not at all like Jesus. In the years after our mother’s death, our family would have greatly benefited from the counseling of licensed professionals instead of being discouraged and taught that seeking help was sinful and a lack of faith.

Final Thoughts

When my son passed away in 2008, the Church of the Brethren Congregation where Mike and I attended, embraced us. In the months following Josh’s death, many people within the church experienced the loss of a family member. The ratio of loss became so consequential in our small congregation, that our pastor invited a counselor from Lutheran Family Services to hold group meetings where she led us through valuable discussions and taught us how to work through the layers of our grief. This response was such a contrast to the churches of my childhood.

Churches, by nature, are in a position to be of great help to people who are suffering. To minister to the needs of others is the calling of all Christians. When a church is more concerned with outward displays and political leanings than ministering to individual needs, it’s not fulfilling its calling. Truly ministering to others means getting dirty in the trenches like Jesus did.