I was not raised in what I would call a religious family. It was more like we flirted with religion. My parents were married in a church, the kids were all baptized in that same church, we had a nativity under the Christmas tree and we talked about it being Jesus' birthday - but that's about where it ended. We knew about God and Jesus and they were never denied, but we didn't say grace before each meal, we didn't read the Bible and we didn't go to church. But starting in kindergarten and lasting through the eighth grade, I was sent to a variety of religious-based schools. Kindergarten was a Lutheran school, first and second grades were in a Catholic school and third through eighth grades were in what was simply called a Christian school - very similar teachings to a Methodist church. It is these years when I can say I developed a better understanding of religion, God and church and where I began to have a relationship with God and faith. But a little more than three years ago, what I had always thought was a pretty strong faith in God was shattered - if God is all knowing and doing then the jerk killed my mother - and let's just say we haven't been on the best of terms since. And it doesn't help that no matter how much I want to go back to that faith of bygone years and believe my mother truly did go to Heaven or something beyond here, the fact remains I simply don't feel her anymore. I haven't (much) since she died. But then came Thursday of this past week. My mom, it had to have been my mom, was watching over me and more so, Georgia. I know it was her. I want to believe it was her. The night before, Wednesday, I had been moving some stuff around in my car and unbuckled Georgia's car seat in the process. To get it out of my way, I moved it up to the front seat. When I finished what I was working on, it was late, so I put her car seat back in its normal position in the back seat and told myself I would buckle it down in the morning before Georgia and I went anywhere. You might see where this is going... The next day, Thursday, I was running late to work because Georgia had napped later than normal. We hurried out to my car, I buckled her into her car seat and back out of the garage. I reached up to the visor above the passenger seat to the place where my garage door opener typically rests so I could close the garage door - no garage door opener. Crap - what the hell happened to it? I jump out and run over to the passenger side to look on the floor, thinking perhaps it had fallen off. No garage door opener. Then I remember putting Georgia's car seat in this same front seat the night before then moving it to the back seat - maybe that knocked the garage door opener to the back seat. I rush back there to look on the seat, but instead of finding a garage door opener, I find my child strapped into a car seat that is not strapped to my car's seat. Holy S***! I almost drove all the way to her daycare without her buckled down. I proceed to buckle the car seat to the car's seat and the EXACT moment I finished, I saw the garage door opener sitting on the floor of the back seat. And then I felt her. It was a little overwhelming. Call me crazy, but my mom was right there. She was. And she made sure that grandbaby of hers was safe. This past Thursday, a little bit of my faith came back to me. I found it on the floor of my car's back seat.
Revisiting the Bad Mother Manifesto
7 hours ago