Believe me daughter

Every visit with my parents holds the unpleasant possibility that mom and I will squabble over something and my feelings will get hurt or my mother's will. This is the way it goes and I accept that possibility (not peacefully, yet) as a part of being my mother's daughter. Based on my parent's visit to New York in September, I had hoped that we would keep our conversations civil, polite, and filled with inane pleasantries. That is easier said in a city that offers constant entertainment, distraction and anomaly to discuss dispassionately. But we're not made of air, but of water (blood), and each of us - my father, my mother, and me - crave to connect, to communicate, to be seen and heard. In fact, the connection and expectation to connect is part of the problem between us.

The last few days I haven't been very peppy or interested in exploring the area. Partly because of exhaustion. I stayed up all night on Friday to make my plane early Saturday and didn't let myself go to bed until 8 p.m. I ate too much on Sunday and had a fitful night which made me groggy yesterday. The 2.5-2.7 mile run to the clubhouse and back helped. The other issue is that they take it easy - all. day. long. So, when they ask me what I'd like to do while I'm here I have to tell them what I think is actually possible, which seems reasonable. I did say I wouldn't mind visiting the largest telescope in the U.S. which is 8,550 feet in the air and visible by the naked eye from their back yard. They just made a face like I asked them to eat bugs and said, "Ehhh, nah." But then, we're driving around Tuscon (depressing place) and mom says to me, "Are you as bored as you can be yet?"

I'm getting ahead of myself though.

Yesterday, was my mother's birthday. She's 65 years old and the mother of four children (one who forgot it and just called to chat). She chose where we went for lunch. Not more than 10 minutes into the meal she says to me, "I know you've told me before but would you say that you are an atheist?"

I'm eating mayonaised pasta and a tuna with chedder on dark rye. It was going to be a lovely day. I had fit in my run and a reviewed my investments (a long overdue task). I was looking forward to helping dad make mom feel special all day. I'd bought dad two cards, which he gave to her and she loved. We were going to a nice restaurant for dinner and I was going to surreptitiously pay for it. It was going to be a good day. And then, I'm eating lunch and all the sudden it's 20 questions about your beliefs.

I responded as I usually do, I look her dead in the eye and say as calmly as I can, "I do not believe in god."

Last September, that was enough, she stopped herself. This time, she continued, "What do you believe in?"

I'm trying not to stare at the Star of David around her neck, which most of my life carried a cross, and took a deep breath, "Well, I guess I am an existentialist. Which means, that I have morals and ethics but do not believe in a higher power." I know that's not exactly what it is but giving her any more words to work with would have been suicidal.

She has these watery blue eyes and the corners of her mouth are turned down. She's got her shoulders squared but her hands are folded over each other on the table, like she's bracing herself. She's bracing alright to forge ahead, "So, you believe in right and wrong but you decide for yourself what that is?"

"Yup."

Her eyes blink and she is taking in her own connection and deciding whether or not she is going to ask this next question. She proceeds, "So, when you die. Do you believe that you're just dead?"

This time I look at my father and my mother. "Yes."

"I know lots of people who are sick who just wish they were dead," she says in response. I figure this personal tid bit is the conclusion of our discussion, but I was wrong.

"Do your friends believe in anything?" She's trying to get a picture of my life, possibly to shroud me with prayer warriors from her Bible Study.

Why yes, they believe in evolution, humanism, democracy, the Bill of Rights, and even God! But I don't say that, I tell her, "Some were raised Catholic or Protestant but they're not practicing. They say they believe in God but that's about as far as it goes."

My mother nods her head to the familiar description of people "who believe in God."

"There ARE a lot of Cafeteria Catholics out there," She says condescendingly.

I can hardly swallow that statement. She's wearing a Star of David around her neck for chrissake! She was raised Methodist and converted to fundamentalism in her early 20s. Then, perhaps 11 or 12 years ago, she began a journey to discover where her true spiritual self lies and found that she is a Jew for Jesus, or a Messianic Jew. So, she wears the symbol around her neck, sometimes proudly, sometimes under her shirt, it depends on the company, I would guess. She of all people should sympathize with a spiritual journey, for chrissake!

So, I say, "What about you? Do you still consider yourself a Messianic Jew?"

My veiled aggression is none-to-subtle and she looks at me with all her motherly contempt and says, "Jesus was a Jew. I am a Christian. Your father and I don't go to church anymore. We stopped going about five years ago when your brother was sick. I guess we fell out of the habit. And Calvary changed. It catered more to young Christians and it was all Christianity 101. We found a Bible study that is one of the deepest and best I have been in. I consider myself to be a growing Christian."

Cue my father to pipe up, "What are we going to do today?"