Religion is a lot like a good pair of shoes. It gives us support, a little lift in our step and it separates us from the other animals. But personally, I prefer to go barefoot.Late last night, as I was about to write a blog entry on an entirely different subject from this, my friend Denny called to tell me he’d just been notified by a hospital here that his mom had died. I figured he was in no shape to drive himself there to say goodbye, so I took him, and we spent hours into the night sitting with his mom.
Looming over the doorway of her room at Little Company of Mary Hospital was a cross featuring Jesus himself, and as we waited for the police to come and file a report, and then a priest to bless her before she was taken away, Denny and I sat next to his mom in her bed. He cried and prayed. His dad was some dude that knocked up his mom and decided to split before Denny was born, and his mom then raised Denny herself to become the kind of guy who’s the complete opposite of his shitbag dad.
So if he felt like praying, I wasn’t about to interrupt. And I was glad I was there to handle things with the hospital staff and the police and the funeral guy, because no one should have to make such tough decisions on the worst day of his life.
And now, Denny’s an orphan, and I feel really bad for him. As I drove him home, I assured him he’ll see over the next few days how amazing people really are, when they flood his email and voicemail with their concern, and pack the church this weekend. And that’s not only a reflection on his mom, but on the son she raised. Amen to that.
