Finding Meaning in Other’s Traditions

Redemption can be found just about everywhere if we look hard enough

As one who finally found my way out of Mormonism just before the Covid lockdown, it seems only fair to say that I’ve not had a desire to align myself with any particular theological tradition, just as I have no desire to get married again.

45 years inside Mormonism and 25 years of marriage gave me enough to heal from for the rest of my life. And I hope to do just that.

But there are other traditions to explore and enjoy, just as there are other kinds of human relationships. I view them in the same light. Ideologies either open doors to our soul or they don’t. Human relationships are the same. I prefer the ones that do, although they are hard to come by.

My son converted to Catholicism a little over three years ago. It gave him a structure to help him rebuild his life. The previous few years had been wrought with difficulties and intense soul-searching. He had endured family trauma, religious trauma, lack of belonging with his peers, and absolute displacement inside himself. There was a lot to work on.

Catholicism was the box he chose, the one that made the most sense to his heart and soul, the one that felt safe…and right. He feels strongly about this last piece. Putting his energy and life into the hands of another theology required a degree of “rightness”.

As his mother, I supported him. I supported him when he called in the middle of the night to tell me about the Franciscans he had been talking to and about their conversation about Mary. Mary mattered. He loved Mary, the woman, the archetype, the potential of unconditional love and sacrifice. I could not help but support him.

His baptism weekend, a few years later, was one filled with memories. People from all over filled my house. It was wonderful. The smells of food cooking, the laughter at the table, the goofing off in the living room. Catholics from all over, sharing their favorite alcohols, games, and stories. I didn’t know most of them, but they were happy and vibrant young people, sharing space with my children and myself.

The baptism was a special moment for me. I felt somehow in alignment with him, grateful for his decisiveness and commitment — things I had rarely felt from his father. I felt a great deal of hope that this decision would begin a new life for him in a good way. And it did.

Just a few months ago, I had the joy of crying through the baptism of my first grandbaby. I heard an enormous congregation of fellow humans sing their approval and commitment to my grandbaby. They would support his upbringing. They would see that he knew who he was and who God was.

It’s not that I love the Catholic version of God. I do, however, love the reality of God as Mystery. The unknowable God is the only God possible, in my book. The Catholic version of God is this, to some degree, so I can agree with them there.

Easter week is Holy Week, to much of the Christian world. Thanks to my (mostly) Protestant gramma, I knew this and experienced it as a child. Mormonism still doesn’t do Holy Week.

I was happy to spend it with my son’s family.

Early in the week, I took them to an outdoor installment of the Stations of the Cross at our local convent. It is simple but beautiful. I walked with them, as they read the words on their phones, words written specifically for this week. I enjoyed listening to them worship together. The intimacy they share in this one action is one I will be forever grateful for…as well as a bit jealous. I have always desired this for myself.

Is redemption, when never to be found in our own lives, allowed to be celebrated through others’ lives? I believe this with a Great. Big. Yes!

It gives me comfort to see them dedicated to the same life with common goals, dreams, desires, and energy. It’s not just his life and his career goals. It’s hers as well. And I am seeing redemption-in-action.

And isn’t redemption the point of Easter?

Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Easter Vigil, and Easter Mass. I didn’t attend them all, but we worked around what they wanted to attend with the baby. Easter Mass was wonderful. I mean, if you can deal with the incense, it is truly glorious. The music was absolute perfection, conducted by a dear old friend of mine. I saw old friends, local politicians, and big, beautiful families, some of whom come to mass only a few Sundays a year. So be it.

Today, we soak it in, together.

Being witness to others’ traditions, and coming as close as I can to participating, is something I enjoy greatly. I enjoy it even more when I know the journey that brought them to where they are. Because the grief, loneliness, fear, and devastation have brought them to a kind of beauty that, only now, can they embrace with their whole souls.

I love it because THEY love it. I love it because I love them.

It wasn’t long ago that I would spend a few days a year at a Zen center in Crestone, CO annually. It’s a place I would stay for a month if I could afford it. But, morning zazen, preparing breakfast in silence, walking meditations, and the mountain view left me breathless each day. It was more than sustaining, it was restorative. I’ve not found that in any other traditions. Zen Buddhism is one that I can fully dive into, but only when I am there, in that place, on that land. It is a powerful healer for me.

I’d spend the days writing and reading, walking and sitting in the gardens. It was exactly what my soul needed. Breathing the pine scent through the thin mountain air, listening to the birds, and exploring the trails gave me a kind of rest I haven’t had elsewhere.

But, I’ll never be Buddhist or Catholic. And that’s okay. It’s okay because I can love the rituals, the ceremony, and the connection with Self and the Divine that they offer without going in head-first. My body can enjoy the sensations and just allow them to sink in. And God knows, I need that more than anything.

And each time, I say, “I’ll hold these memories close and hope they will sustain me until the next time.”

And there will be a next time.