Christmas as a Bootleg Catholic

Honestly my religious background consists of this: my Grandma telling me not to use the Lord’s name in vain and to say Geez instead, and……no, that’s it. I’ve sat here for the past half hour trying to think of other examples of times when my family discussed religion with me growing up but that’s the only example I can remember. All to say I don’t come from a very religious background. But when I got to high school I got slightly interested in religion. My interest was sparked mostly because my friends were starting to drink and smoke weed and the church kids were still playing hide n’ go seek and having sleepovers on the weekends which was more my speed at 14 years old. So I started to hang with the church group kids. I didn’t agree with most of what they said. I didn’t believe I was going to hell, or gay people were, or that God was going to judge us when we died. But I did believe the parts when they talked about loving all beings and having compassion for everybody on earth no matter their situation. So I basically stuck to that and was just thankful to have a group of kids who wanted to build forts and tell ghost stories with me on Saturday night.

But hanging with those kids and going to church with them in the morning opened my eyes to a part of society that continues to mystify me. For years I used to sit in the pews of church, listening to the priests amplified voice drone on and wonder what everybody was sitting there thinking about. Every once in a while I would get this wave of panic. As I stared at the backs of every bodies heads and listened to them say their prayers in unison or sing something I would feel like yelling – IT’S NOT TRUE YOU GUYS!! There are people like you all over the world doing the same thing you are but to a different god with a different set of rules. I couldn’t reckon with that. Sometimes when I would leave church it would take me an hour to recover. I would just feel like, Shit! Those are adults in there and they are just letting that random weird dude at the front of the room tell them how to live their lives. And some of it wasn’t good. I mean, the part that has always had me the most up in arms is people thinking being gay is a sin. I mean, come on Christian, you sound like such an asshole when you say gays will burn in hell. Like a real bigot, not like a loving open minded role model for the next generation. Okay and just to vent, this is the part that really got my blood boiling back then and still does (even as a newly baptized Catholic), you will throw out the parts of the bible that aren’t convenient for YOU, like the fact that it is a sin to wear two types of fabric (Deut 22:11)but you are clinging to that gays being a sinner thing for dear life. Let it go and be a good god loving person okay? So that was my main point in Sunday school and it didn’t make me too popular on a religious front but I was too fun of friend to have that once we got out of Sunday school people just forgot about the ruckus I had created inside the church and still hung out with me.

Flash forward 15 years later and I am still struggling with some of the same problems. But something has changed in me. When I am in the pews, instead of staring at the backs of peoples’ heads and feeling worried for them I feel a little bit jealous. It just seems comforting to have a faith that you are devoted to and you share with a whole group of people. It’s just nice to have somewhere to go where everybody has agreed to love each other and take care of each other based on a common philosophy and a shared understanding of why we are all here. I try to think of places I feel like that. I guess with my best friend Arley I feel like that, I think she is the only person I share an almost identical world/life philosophy with. Though most the time our philosophy is inconvenient and doesn’t fit into conventional society or relationships. Our philosophy is that each persons’ heart has enough love inside of it to truly love and understand each being and we should all strive to acknowledge that love and share it. Of course most of the time what that gets us is some stalker guy who we shared car share with or a guy friend that our boyfriends feel jealous of, but as a philosophy I believe in it 100%. And I guess I just think a lot about how comforting it would be if every week I got together with a bunch of Arley’s and discussed it for a couple hours and it could be a public part of my identity. Like, I’m Heather, I’m from California, I’m the religion where I believe I can love everybody with all my heart and find a common understanding with you and that is why I am being nice to you (Not because today is your lucky day and after 50 years of no girls ever giving you the time of day a pretty good looking 29 year old has fallen for you). I would like to have a word for it: Christian, Buddhist, Muslim but those just don’t feel right.

But since I sort of involuntarily became a Catholic last September I have noticed something strange, I like being Catholic! Minus all the wars fought in the name of my God, the pervy priests and the amount of times my church has damned gays to hell I feel great about saying I’m a Catholic. No but seriously, being baptized has been a interesting process for me. I’ll tell you the story.

My Grandpa Bill, who died September 2009, was one of my favorite people to ever exist and he was a good Catholic. He was a Eucharistic Minister, meaning he could give communion to people and sometimes he baptized people. He always went to church and always pushed the Catholic Church to do the right thing. Late in life he really started to get a little far out for a Eucharistic Minister. Last summer he said to me, "You gotta admit when things are changing and I really think gays should be able to adopt in the Catholic religion – I mean, who wants a bunch of old men in Rome who have never had sex with anyone telling them how to live their lives." Good point Grandpa.

So anyway, when my grandpa suggested that he baptize me last August, (“just in case us Catholics end up being right”) I agreed. Both my parents are baptized and he and my Granny had baptized my sister in the kitchen sink when she was one year old while my parents were at the grocery store (Mom and Dad were not too happy about that). Anyway, for my whole life he sorta worried about me because he didn’t want me to end up burning in Hell because he never got the chance to baptize me as a baby (parents were keeping a closer eye on Gramps and his holy water by the time I came around).
So anyway, he decided to baptize me. He rolled himself over to the sink of his nursing home and filled up his thick, pastel pink cup with water. We rolled down the hallway to go find another Catholic to witness my baptism (You need a witness present at baptism). I walked into Nat Cole’s room first and my Grandpa wheeled in behind me. From behind my Grandpa ordered very loudly, “Nat, I’m going to baptize my granddaughter and you are going to be the witness.” Nat was a frail little man and was lying in his bed, with his legs elevated. He reached out his hand and I gave him mine. “So happy to be. Welcome, welcome.” He was bowing his head. My grandpa dipped his fingers in his plastic cup and was ready to get to business. Nat stopped the affair, “I have a couple of questions for you before we go through with this. Where will you visit a priest to be confirmed? Will you have a ceremony at a later date?” Grandpa Bill was not happy with the questions. With an over exaggerated roll of his eyes, and his fingers still tipped in the cup, he said loudly and with a very annoyed tone, “No, no, no Nat she won’t do all this. We are just going to baptize her here and that’s it.” Under his breath I heard him say so only I could hear, “Just in case.” To Nat, those were fighting words and the sweet old man all cooped up in his nursing home room began to yell and scream. The fight went something like this.

Nat: Not in the Lords name will I witness a baptism that isn’t real?

Bill: Come on Nat, you are the only Catholic I know on this floor.

Nat: No chance, no chance, Bill you shouldn’t be just baptizing people for the heck of it.

Bill: (as he signaled to me to drop the old man’s hand and follow him out) “Nat, it is because of Catholics like you that our religion is shrinking, so by the book, so opposed to changing with the times.”

I pushed my Grandpa back to his room and I plopped down on his bed. He handed me the cup to set down on his bedside table. We were both quiet. Finally he said: “Next time you come up with your Dad or even your sister they can be the witness, okay Heather?” I agreed but felt a little disappointed. I just wanted so badly to be baptized by him. I mean, I loved him enough that I would have let him baptize me into anything if it was going to make him feel better and I was excited to share that part of his life with him. Okay, next time I thought. But in the back of my head I couldn’t help but think: what if there isn’t a next time - I mean, he was 91 years old and hadn’t been doing too well.

So when I landed down at SFO after a two week vacation in Europe and got the call that Grandpa had had a stroke and was sorta in a coma, my heart sank. Sitting on the floor in the baggage claim with my head in my hands, tears streaming down my face I prayed to Jesus Christ for the first time. I prayed he would hang on long enough for me to get myself up to the state of Washington, not to be baptized, but to give him one last hug. Actually I didn’t think of the baptism thing until the second day I visited my Grandpa in his coma like state.

My sister and I were standing on either side of his bed. I was giving him a thousand kisses on his face and telling him that if he wanted to fight through this we were rooting for him and that we’d be there for him. I had that same pink plastic cup in my hand filled half way with water and I was taking a little moisture swab and wetting his mouth. He had been opening his eyes a little but not moving. My sister was on her iphone talking to my Dad giving him a play by play of our two days by Grandpa’s side. I was shouting in Grandpa’s face about things I had done lately - telling him stories of me and Julian in Europe, and what was going on in politics when I felt his hand move. His eyes opened and he reached his left hand outside of the sheet it was under and at a glacial speed reached for the cup. My heart pounded, Carolynn said quietly into the phone. “He’s moving Dad, he’s moving.” My Grandpa reached for the cup and I helped him hold it. I was frantic. “You want a sip? You want to do the swab yourself? You thirsty?” He lowered his fingers over the edge of the cup and dipped them ever so slightly into the water. He reached his wet fingers up and placed them on top of my head and began brushing my face with his hand. I was laughing, “What are you doing Grandpa?? It’s Heather, you’re awake!!” Carolynn began to raise her voice as she continued to give the play by play to Dad. “He is grabbing Heather’s FACE!! He is touching her head. I don’t know what he is doing.” His hand stopped between my eyes and for almost a full minute he pressed his thumb into my forehead. I figured he was just trying to connect with me. He then dropped his arm back down. Carolynn looked at me with such intense seriousness, “WHAT was that?” I laughed, I felt sorta weird about it. I shrugged, “No clue.”

We had to go at that moment so we said our goodbyes to Grandpa and told him we’d be back in the evening to visit. We each squeezed his hand and told him we loved him sooooo much. We looked at each other with tears welling in our eyes both hoping that wasn’t goodbye goodbye.

As we were walking out to the parking lot my sister handed me her phone which my Dad was still on. I told my Dad what had happened and he said, “Heather, I think he baptized you.” He told me that my Grandpa had mentioned to him the week before that he hoped he got to baptize me soon. I sorta laughed and thought, long shot but maybe.
When we got back to my uncles house I took a nap on the couch. One of those weird daytime/something really sad is going on naps. I could hear my sister playing catch with my uncles golden retrievers in the back yard. I drifted in and out of sleep dreaming about my grandpa’s hand pressing between my eyes. I could feel his touch in the dream so vividly. His hands were so distinct and exactly like my Dad’s. To me there is such a comforting feeling when those hands patted me on the head or rubbed my back. In my dream I could feel that feeling all over my head and face and I woke up with a little bit of a startle.

I told my sister I needed to know if Grandpa baptized me or not, I was determined. That evening we quietly returned to his room, walked up to him so peacefully, stood on either side of him and began our interrogation. I held onto Grandpa’s right hand and said very loudly right in his face, “Grandpa. Hi, we are back, it’s Heather and Carolynn!! We want to know if you bootleg baptized me. Squeeze my hand if the answer is yes.” Nothing. We took turns. Carolynn was much gentler. Shaking his shoulder ever so gently as if he were a brand new baby she whispered in his ear, “Wake up Grandpa…we want to know if you baptized Heather earlier? Did you baptize her? Was that why you were touching her face like that?!” On Carolynn’s third of forth try his left eye opened and Carolynn and I both crowded our faces in front of the open eye. “Hi! It’s us!” The right eye fluttered a little and finally opened half way. I shouted my command to be heard down the halls of the nursing home, “GRANDPA – squeeze my hand if you baptized me earlier!” With exhaustion, “I gotta know if I am a bootleg Catholic…” His fingers began to move and he gripped my hand so tightly; the bones in my hand collapsed into each other. I flashed a look at Carolynn, “Feel it.” Carolynn tried to wedge her fingers between my Grandpa’s grip and my hand. “Oh my god, you’re a Catholic” Carolynn said. I smiled. I kissed his face all over and Carolynn rubbed his shoulder again very gently.

Grandpa Bill died two days later. When I found out I was driving in the car after a night of camping and on my way to go watch my sister do an Olympic distance triathlon. My Mom and Dad were both on the phone and they just said as simple as it gets, “Grandpa died last night.” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath and tried to remember how to do the catholic sign of the cross. I couldn’t remember if you go left to right or right to left when you say Holy Ghost so I decided not to do it. When I hung up I said a prayer under my breath. “Dear Lord, please welcome my so sweet, very very cute Grandpa to heaven. He can be gruff sometimes but he is a really good guy. Take care of him and know that he did a lot of good things for your religion while he was alive.” It was nice to have someone to pray to. I opened my eyes and thought: Hey, thanks for listening God.

My sister was a maniac that day. I didn’t get to the triathlon before the race started so I saw her running in her wetsuit after she completed the first leg, the mile swim. I screamed and cheered for her and she ran straight to me and threw her arms around me. Her embrace soaked the front of my dress. “Did you talk to Mom and Dad?” she asked gasping for breath. “Yeah” I said, “He died...poor Grandpa.” We both stuck out our bottom lips. She said she didn’t really want to do the race anymore. I told her to just go for it. She had got 12 of our friends signed up for the race and had really been training a lot. She stood there for a minute and then, with determination, pronounced, “Okay.” And ran off to complete her 26 mile bike ride and 6 mile run.
Julian and I were twiddling our thumbs at the finish line when we saw Carolynn approaching something like a half hour before we expected her. We hugged her at the end, “Good JOB sissy!! That was CRAZY fast.” She huffed, “I just thought about Grandpa the whole time and all the strength he had to use to even just open his eyes to let us know he knew we were there and that he loved us and I just felt like going as fast as I could.”