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Last Updated: Oct 16th, 2008 - 13:33:17 |
A single chorus of Jesus Loves the Little Children should be enough assurance that those under 18 are not damned in God's book. But the verses, repeated so often, don't have the asterisk that our society should require.
What are the terms of this love? Is the offer not valid in places like Oklahoma, California, and Massachussets? Perhaps Heaven becomes a guarantee at a certain age, much like pension plans. My parochial education wasn't certain to be my salvation, either.
When I was 11, I was certain I would be witness to the end of the world. I watched for signs because a school friend had told me the end was near.
A man in church proclaimed loudly, "The world will end at 4:30!" At the time, it was all the divine sign that I needed.
Over green beans on white plates, I remember the change of wind that brought me to my worst fear. The end had arrived.
The wind rocked the screens and windows and sent spring leaves scurrying across the gray sky. 70 degrees became 30. The snow blew in and while my family rushed to the front window to witness the awesome event, I went to the only place where I thought I could escape the wrath of God.
In the basement, under my bed.
Truthfully, I couldn't say my main concern was for myself. It was for my family. It was for my neighbor. It was for my cat.
I drew strength from a deep-seated belief that prayer could make the difference. God was supposed to be listening, no matter how afraid I was of his wrath.
I squeezed into the little nook provided by two sets of drawers beneath my bed. I pulled a blanket down in front of the entrance. My small hands were clenched so tightly in prayer that I broke out in a sweat.
My mantra was the Lord's prayer.
My education about the End came from what I might consider now an unreliable source. Revelation was the one book that the school never managed to teach, so I relied on the knowledge of a class friend who spent recess convincing me that she saw an angel and a white horse.
For her, the end was My Little Pony with an apocalyptic twist.
I trusted her knowledge. She memorized Bible verses. She got the best grade in religion class. Her Bible had more highlighting than the teacher. Revelation was her favorite book.
But the words that whispered out of my mouth weren't the same words in my mind. I considered my inadequacies. At 11, I knew I had them. What did God consider worth forgiving? Who had I been spiteful toward? Was "sorry" just enough?
On the plastic covers over the dug-out windows in the basements, the wind hammered. I stayed there for 15 minutes before it became apparent that either God was delayed or waiting for me to show my shameful face.
I crawled up the stairs and into the dining room. My dad sat at the table, his calloused hands peeled an orange for his next day's lunch. The city lights glowed orange against the new-fallen snow.
The world had not crumbled at my feet, but the faith in my religion teachers and eccentric friend had. It was not my will that saved the world, though for a moment I felt I had succeeded as a negotiator between God and man.
The weather might have been God's fault, but the fear was not.
If as people we allow ourselves to be controlled by fear, we are left with few options but to hide under a bed, or a table, or a lie like an 11-year-old frightened by the weather.
I stood in the picture window of the living room and watched as the snow clung to the new growth of spring. There can only be pride in such a moment when you face your fear.
The snow didn't stay. I can say now that such weather is a feat few places other than Colorado can accomplish. My departure from the world of parochial education was soon to follow.
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