Good Friday

My mother is very Jewish in a cultural sense but not religious at all. Her parents were immigrants from Russia, card-carrying members of the Communist Party. Not much room for faith there. My father, whose ancestors came to America on the Mayflower (David likes to joke that I'm related to a bunch of thieves, rapists and murderers), was raised Protestant, but rejected all religion and was a self-proclaimed atheist. (David also jokes that declaring oneself an atheist is also a belief, therefore making it no different than being a person of faith.)

When I was a little girl, I remember approaching my father on the subject of religion.

"Daddy, what is God?" I asked.

"God is a mythical person people choose to believe in because they're too afraid to believe that they are alone in the world," he replied.

"Oh," I said, and walked out of the room.

Another time I asked him, "Daddy, what is heaven?"

"Heaven is a mythical place that people choose to believe in because they're too afraid to believe that when they die, they’re buried in the ground and that is where they stay."

"Oh," I said, and walked out of the room.

My mother didn’t do Jewish holidays. But it wasn’t as if we protested them. If an invitation was extended to us, we gladly attended celebrations like Passover and Hanukkah.

My father celebrated Christmas as a boy. It was one thing in his not-so-happy childhood that he enjoyed, so we always had Christmas. But I never knew it had anything to do with religion, and I never really knew who this baby named Jesus was. I just liked the presents and the tree, the cartoon specials and the smell of the season. On Easter, I loved getting dressed up, going to someone's house and hunting for eggs. Even when I was a young woman, my father took pleasure in making a basket of chocolates and other nice things, which he joyfully presented to me on Easter Sunday, a day, I also must admit, I had no idea had anything to do with Christ or his resurrection.

A month before my father unexpectedly died, he and I took a trip to Providence, Rhode Island, and we visited the gravesite of his parents. There were two empty markers there, one reserved for my dad, and one for my mother. The cemetery was beautiful and cheerful -- acres of green grass and tall trees, and flowers of every color. As Dad and I sat on the ground beside the grave, he looked peaceful and he smiled a big, easy smile. He said, "Kate, it gives me great comfort to know that one day I'll be here. That you and your brothers will come to visit me, and your children will run around the grass and you'll all talk about Grandpa."

Well, he's there now, but if he were here, I know he’d be enjoying this Good Friday. He might even be making baskets for the three grandchildren he never knew.

I don’t believe he’s in heaven walking with Jesus, but neither do I believe what he believed -- that all that remains of him are his ashes buried in the ground.

During the nights following my father's death, I’d fall asleep for brief moments at a time and dream of him. In most of my dreams he’d be standing silently before me and I’d be pleading with him to come back. But in one dream, I felt from him a surge of joy and I heard his voice. “Yipeeeee!” he shouted.

Perhaps he’d gotten it all wrong -- perhaps his life didn’t begin with his birth or end with his death. And from the sound of things, I believe he’s somewhere … having one hell of an interesting time.

Happy Holidays, blog resumes Monday