Wrestling with Religion

I’m lingering after a meeting and ask the woman next to me: “Do you know that man who asked that last question?” “The one that sat in the back row?” “That’s him.” We look around. We don’t see him. “Somebody called him Joe,” I volunteer. “He was introduced to me as Sarge. He heads the finance committee." “ You must be talking about Mr. Edwards,” says a man who has been listening. Or maybe I inquire about the Way, the Truth, and the Light. “You mean the Godhead incarnate?” “That’s him.” We look around. We don’t see him. “Somebody called him Krishna,” I volunteer. “He was introduced to me as Jesus. He died to give eternal life.” “You must be talking about Orpheus,” says a man who has been listening.

Shortly before my fiftieth birthday, my father announced that he had inoperable lung cancer. I see this moment as a snapshot. He’s sitting on the sofa in my son’s apartment, my mother beside him. After a long pause, I ask, “What are you going to do?” He answers in one word: “Live.” And live he did for two more months, hospitalized the last few days for palliative care. On the final night, they sent Daddy home with an oxygen tank. Another snapshot: he’s smiling in his recliner in the family room as we run a slideshow of family pictures, his life in review. We drove back to Phenix City before bedtime, and the next morning my brother called to say Daddy had died that night. Daddy never shared his afterlife expectations, and they may not matter. Whatever waits after the heart stops and the body decomposes, I doubt that expectation changes anything. His religion did guide him well through life. He said he was a Christian because his father was the best man he knew. Even if I can...