Grandma Said I'm Going to Hell
But Santa says I'm not
Grandma predicted I would burn in Hell. She was the first.
Can't recall the presenting cause that led her to opine on my eternal destiny, but she seemed pretty sure of it.
Dad had one brother. Uncle Glen always made me laugh. He taught me yo-yo and card tricks. We did everything with our three cousins. Until we didn't.
Never understood what happened. After Grandpa retired, Dad became CEO of the family business. We stopped seeing our cousins and my grandparents after that. Mom said they didn't like us anymore. She'd be crying when I got home from school because of the latest missile Grandma had launched at Dad.
Before Mom said, 'Enough is enough,' the adults tried to protect us kids from their feud. Things got awkward because, when things were good, Dad and Uncle Glen bought river homes next door to each other.
Things got awkward for the adults, but not for us kids initially. We adored our cousins. They were girls, but they were fun.
Grandma likely saw me as a target of opportunity. I wandered over to Uncle Glen's river place, looking for my cousins. Found her sipping coffee, enjoying the morning sun on their patio. My life was always a question mark for Grandma.
My older brothers tell me I precociously developed 'provoking Dad' into an art form. But Dad was always safe because he couldn't help loving me. I was like him, just different.
Provoking Grandma was more complicated.
She stabbed the air, her pointer in my face, breathing fire as she expressed wrath on God's behalf. Grandma said I would burn in Hell because I couldn't recite the Ten Commandments and didn't even know the catechism.
Don't recall what I said before or after. My brain recorded a permanent video but only caught Grandma's lines. And a closeup of her angry face. She used to give me extra whipped cream on my pumpkin pie. But that was before the family feud.
Still recall what I didn't say. Prudence inspired me not to clarify that Methodists don't do catechisms. Pride inspired me not to prove her wrong by reciting the Ten Commandments. I could only remember seven.
Even then, I intuited she wasn't saying what she was saying. The correct translation: Ken and Grace hurt me; I'm going to strike back at them by terrorizing their 15-year-old son.
She succeeded.
It was her hatred that hurt. Grandma's prediction of my residence in Hell didn't faze me.
Escaping Hell never has been a concern for me. My reasons have evolved, but not my unconcern.
At fifteen, my reasoning was straightforward.
First, Grandma and I worshipped different gods. Her God was mean and authoritarian, always ready to zap you if you broke the rules. Only those who knew the secret Missouri Synod Lutheran handshake could eat at her God’s table.
My God was less well-defined.
Once they bought their river house, Mom and Dad stopped attending church except for Christmas and Easter. Mom seldom talked about God. Dad taught by example. He prayed all the time. Long, misty prayers of gratitude before family feasts. Quiet petitions for all of us at the river's edge as crickets chirped and owls hooted.
Watching Dad, I inferred that God was like a jolly grownup Santa Claus who provided all you needed as long as you were good.
My Scoutmaster, whom all of us Scouts called Uncle Wally, led the only regular worship services I attended once Mom and Dad bought their river place. Our troop camped every month. Every Sunday morning, before we'd pack up to go home, Uncle Wally would gather us at some beautiful spot near our campsite for worship. Through his simple reflections, he taught me to notice the symphony of creation. To respond with reverence.
My God was always outdoors.
So Grandma and I worshipped different gods. Hers was like her. Mine was like Dad—a loving Creator. The one thing we agreed on was that God was majestic and distant. Wholly other.
My parents never mentioned Hell. Apart from the refrain "Go to Hell Ole Miss" that every Louisiana boy knew, it wasn't part of our vocabulary. Beyond that, I assumed Hell was like the threat of coal in your Christmas stocking. It didn't apply to me because I always tried to be good.
The second reason I never worried about Hell was that I learned from friends what makes you go there. Baptists went to Hell if they danced. I loved to dance, but I wasn't Baptist. I knew Methodists go to Hell for drinking. But I didn't drink. Yet. Despite Grandma's prophecy, I figured I was safe.
Grandma taught me a lot. Like how to play marbles. How to dunk for apples. How to love pumpkin pie. Most importantly, Grandma gave me a permanent allergy to accounts that depict humans as sinners in the hands of an angry god.
My parents modeled a different view. Despite my mastery of provocations, Mom and Dad always preserved a place for me. Their instinct was to love, to welcome, to instruct. I figured God must be much more like that.
But, at fifteen, I was too busy having fun to think about God. That came later.
After Karen, I paid attention. Somewhat. I still didn't think of God much but thought of Karen a lot. Perhaps if I aligned my beliefs with hers and did all the Christian stuff, I could win her back. And if that wasn't possible, at least I could hang out with her. I hung out with God because Karen did.
By accident, all that hanging out made a difference. Learned religious language. Learned Bible stories. Worshipped something other than myself.
By the time I headed off to Annapolis, my new Christian persona fit like a well-tailored suit. I could embrace that new identity whenever the situation warranted it.