Adam and Eve

Being a stubborn child, I had to test everything. If you told me not to touch the electrical outlet, I would touch it anyway. What was knowledge without the experience? This would pour over into my entire life. This seemed to be the cause of my pain as well as my joy. Gems are most often found after looking under a lot of rocks. I don’t think grown-ups looked at it that way, though. My inquisitive nature was more of a thorn in their side than a blessing.

One day, during religion class, Miss Conrad read to us the story of Adam and Eve. Immediately afterward she asked us what we thought. My hand promptly shot into the air. She looked around the room like she was begging for someone else to put their hand up, but mine was the only one.

“Yes, Tammy?”

"I don’t think it’s true.”

“Well, of course, it is. It’s in the Bible. The Bible is the Word of God.”

Without pause, I replied, “No. Why would God, who is ALL-loving make ALL people for ALL time be punished because of two people’s mistakes? And it’s not like a really big mistake or anything. Eve shared an apple with Adam. Big deal! God wants us to share. You even said that!”

“Yes, God does want us to share. Adam and Eve had all the Garden of Eden to share, except for this one apple. God told them they were not allowed to eat that apple, and they disobeyed.”

I tried to process this and, just as my teacher thought it was safe to move on, I interjected, “What does God care about one dumb apple when they had the whole Garden of Eden?” My classmates laughed.

My teacher, knowing I had the potential to make this an all day discussion, threw in the towel. She asked us to pull out our math books. I raised my hand. She looked away so I waved it real big to get her attention. She turned her back to me. I yelled, “Miss Conrad. Miss Conrad.”

“What is it, Tammy?”

"We aren’t supposed to start math for ten more minutes and…”

“Today we will do things differently. Open your book to page one hundred forty-six, class.” I shrugged. I don’t get grown-ups. They do the strangest things, and they don’t like to answer questions either.

Nan

My Nan was a good person with a huge heart, but don’t make her pick you up from school. She was my first experience with religion on a personal, deeper level. I would peek through the crack in her door and watch her as she prayed the rosary. With her eyes closed, she would reverently stroke the beads in her fingers one by one. The words that came from her lips were not mechanical but bathed in love. I don’t think she ever knew I was there, silently and respectfully in the shadows filled with awe and wonder. This was my experience of the word “holy”.

To go in my Nan’s room was not just taking your life in your own hands but like walking into a shrine. Her walls and dressers were filled with crosses and pictures of Jesus; Mary, the Blessed Mother; and many of the saints. Among these items would be treasures we found for her: a flower wilted from time, a “special” rock, ribbons, drawings (or scribbles, depending on whose eyes you were looking with.), and any number of other little gifts that had been given to her.

I was fascinated with her room, and not just because of her goody drawer of all kinds of cakes, pies, and candy either. In a quiet way, I learned more from my grandmother about God and love than I have ever learned from a priest or preacher, perhaps there is something to be said for that.

Many would not consider my grandmother a good Christian lady. She did not go to church on Sundays, except for rare occasions; and she certainly did not parade her religion around like a peacock strutting its feathers. Nor did she agree or disagree with anyone else’s expression of their beliefs, yet there was no doubt in my mind that my Nan loved God.

This is not to say Nan did not take a more active role in teaching me about God. As soon as I had been able to talk, she taught me to say my bedtime prayer, “Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my Soul to keep…” I think it is a horrible prayer myself. It scared the daylights out of me thinking I might not get up in the morning! But my grandmother insisted I should say it every night, and I didn't dare argue. Although I do think I slipped in a quick "Please God let me wake up in the morning because it can be bad here, but I don't know where I'm going there." While I didn't really believe in a hell, I wasn't quite ready to take my chances since I was often told what a little devil I was.

Nanny would also clap my hands together gently and teach me how to bless myself, but these would be the only outward expressions of religion I would learn from her. The most important lessons I gleaned were about love, strength, compassion, and nurturing. And those lessons were taught to me silently, by example, not from her lecturing me about it. Maybe that is why they were so powerful.