why can’t two things be true.

Why can’t my religion just be curious?

I grew up in a family that practiced having a relatively lackadaisical relationship with God. My strongest influences of being surrounded by traditional religion was from my maternal and paternal grandmother’s, but I don’t know that I’d really describe my childhood as having anything more than religion in the background.

Gram would tuck me in for bed and whisper “Goodnight, God bless you, if you need me, call me” between forehead kisses.

Honey would load the family up in the car every Sunday for morning mass, followed by donuts and a donation in the church hall.

My mom’s father played piano for his church and hosted holiday’s in its basement.

Family dinner would kick off with the children trying to outdo one another by speedily starting off grace thanking Christ’s entire family for all of the above.

“Dear Mary, dear Joseph, dear Jesus, dear God, thank you for the food we’re about to receive and for umm…”

Our kitchen wall was a gallery of decorated crosses.

I went to catechism and made my first communion.

And then I put my foot down on the confirmation.

I distinctly remember having a weeknight dinner at my uncle’s—oddly enough, this was also the night I had my first tongue tap sip of red wine because my uncle had said a little bit was good for the heart, so perhaps that’s what had emboldened me.

Well, that’s a lie. I was an incredibly bold child with the attitude to match. I think I’ve almost always been who I am today, maybe just grown kinder with time. Did I mention I’m the eldest daughter?

Anyway, my cousin and I had made our communions and the topic of confirmation had been tossed about the table for one reason or another.

Even as a child I had always known I was Honey’s favorite. I liked pretty things and wanted to be pretty and talked like an adult and watched grey’s anatomy with enthusiasm and didn’t whine for chocolate milk. A 60 year old woman with a penchant for antique roadshow and french manicures dream, obviously.

And I used this to my advantage in all scenarios. I talked down to the children and talked back to the adults in broad daylight and none were the wiser. Or, maybe they were and I just couldn’t be bothered to care.

One thing that would bother me enough to care? Being spoken for as if I didn’t have a voice of my own, even if I was a child. Autonomy, choice, and control were my three pillars. I’d force myself to have a concrete opinion on anything out of spite before allowing myself to be dismissed and directed.

Back to the dinner at hand — so, when Honey was so flippantly discussing my fall plans of more catechism and a confirmation to follow as if I weren’t in the room, couldn’t speak on my own behalf, and didn’t have a say in the matter; I saw prepubescent red.

“That’s not what I will be doing. What if I want to be Buddhist?”

“Well, you’re not Buddhist. You’re Catholic.”

“That’s my decision, not yours, and, you’re not my mom anyway.”

My little chest couldn’t have been puffed out further if I were a peacock. I could feel the (apparently now Buddhist) angel and devil on my shoulders both patting me on the back while I beamed at myself with pride.

Eldest daughter, remember?

This had launched a lengthy debate that my memory holds no real resolution or ending for. But I didn’t make my confirmation and my cousins did.

A small handful of years later I had independently teleported myself full force into religion. I was in a phase where pushing myself further and further to see how late I could stay up and then sleep in was another form of reaffirming my pillars. I’d stay up until the TV channels stopped playing shows I probably shouldn’t have been watching and settled into long form infomercials and the 700 club. Which was basically some sort of cross between new-age christianity, deep southern baptist and tax evading missionaries.

I was transfixed by the live audience airing their personal traumas and medical conditions on pre-morning television for some white man with a combover to heal after the purchase of a special edition bible and sponsorship for the starving children in Africa.

I decided I was going to read the bible and get to the root of what everyone was all up in arms about. Because I really did believe in God, I just wasn’t sure who God was. I believed in something, I just wasn’t sure what.

Another glorious confession about me; I have an insane level of self-confidence in believing that I’ll be the one to figure something out that everyone hasn’t yet. I don’t know how to explain it, but whether it was God or later in life ACOTAR theories, I’ve always been positive that I’ll be able to connect the dots if I wanted to. That’s a whole other can of worms to discuss in therapy.

So, I read the bible on my own. I went to Catholic summer camp. I wrote letters and put them in the mailbox addressed to God in heaven. I begged my dad to take me to the cross in the woods (if you’re not from Michigan, please open a Google tab now) every summer while we were up north. I had saints and Virgin Mary bracelets stacked up my wrists while kids my age were decked in “I <3 Boobies,” “Live Strong,” and silly bands (what was this cult-like trend our generation was obsessed with anyway?)

And then I just sort of grew up and stopped. Life or teenagers or boys or something else took precedent and I just kind of moved on from the phase. I thought I was in love with a boy who introduced me to Tumblr and atheism and changed paths like changing from PINK yoga pants to skinny jeans.

I remember telling my mom that I didn’t believe in God. And my mom telling me that she didn’t care what I believed in, but that I had to believe in something. But what was “something”? There wasn’t a book about something, there were books about options. Judaism, Christianity, Islam, Buddhism, Hinduism, Big Bang, Flat Earth…. but what was actually the real one? The right one?

After that I just sort of took the pieces I did believe in and landed on that. Maybe God and Buddha and Allah and everyone else were sitting at a long table Last Supper style watching over all of us and breaking bread together between tsunamis and heartbreaks.

Maybe God was just an idea. A personal channel between you and the universe, the consciousness that narrated your life, your Christmas list, your past self and future self holding hands guiding you from place to place.

I asked Gram once if Adam & Eve were real how can we explain evolution. How the hell did we explain away the monkeys if we were all tied back to an apple in Eden. How can we believe in both when they contradict one another so completely?

“I believe in Evolution and I believe in Adam & Eve. Why can’t two things be true? I don’t think it’s up to me decide anyway. But, if I had to really try to make sense of it, maybe once we were monkeys. Maybe God came down and gave us a soul and that’s how this version of us started.”

Why can’t two things be true.

Maybe God is Gram. And maybe God is mom.

All this to say, now, I believe in everything that makes sense to me, that resonates with me. I believe in two things being true.

Maybe thats how the first bible was written — just a mashup of the things some guys’ Gram believed and he wrote down because his mom said believing in something bigger than himself was the whole entire point.