When I Die,
When I was a kid my mom used to have me recite the same prayer every night before bed. It went like this.
Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.
God bless Mommy, Daddy, Stephanie, Keelta
Then, after she kissed me goodnight and turned off the lights I would lay there and worry about the death of my family. Namely my dad. He has never been the picture of health and is still a chronic cigarette smoker. As if contemplating the death of my dad was not enough, it was further compounded by worry of whether or not he would go to hell and how I could save him from such a terrible fate. Maybe if I could get him to attend church with me, my mom and sister he would be granted entrance into heaven? But he never did come to church, so every night I lay there in worry.
In our early teens, my mother required my sister and I attend catechism classes with the promise that after we completed our lessons, it would be our choice as to whether or not we wanted to continue attending church. During those classes I was the kid that asked the pastor questions he could not answer. Unsatisfied, I decided to read the bible. Revelations sounded like the most exciting chapter so I started there. I lost interest part way through. I dutifully lit candles as an acolyte during Sunday sermons and sang hymns in the choir wearing the mandatory white gown. An imposter among angels, I thought. Upon completion of my classes there was a confirmation ceremony at church. After which my mother threw a party in celebration. My grandmother gifted me a large 14 karat gold cross on a heavy gold chain. That was the end of my relationship with religion. I never wore the cross but I appreciated it’s sentiment up until it was stolen along with my other possessions in Los Angeles during a burglary just a few years back. That cross was my last vestige of any association I had with religion.
I also appreciate my mother’s efforts to impart her faith upon us and respect her immensely for allowing us to decide whether or not it was for us. Now that I am grown I no longer believe in heaven or hell. I haven’t even thought about that prayer or my own early experiences with church until just recently. Perhaps it’s because I have a child of my own and we are just starting to get into the rhythm of our own bedtime routine. (She won’t be saying that prayer, FYI.)
But now here I am in my late thirties, asking the same of people as my mother asked of me. When you think about your own mortality, what are those thoughts comprised of?
