Tag Archives: Adult children

What an Atheist Is Teaching Me about the Nature of Faith

The day after Thanksgiving, my son and I talked about God and gratitude, religion and reason, faith and Ricky Gervais.

I knew the British comedian as the originator of The Office. Turns out he’s also a “pathological atheist,” according to former CNN talk-show host Piers Morgan, and a surprisingly articulate authority on the wisdom of living in the here and now.

“I get frustrated when people say that atheists live a less fulfilling life because they lack spirituality and they believe nothing comes after we die,” said my son, 19, a college sophomore and recently declared religious studies major.

“Ricky Gervais made the point —and somewhat facetiously, because he’s a comedian — that atheists have more to live for because they’re not spending their lives anticipating what comes afterward. So they want to make the most of what they have.”

And so commenced a conversation that held more meaning for me than the facile reminders of “gratitude” that every listserv and website I subscribe to threw at me in the days before Thanksgiving.

Christmas ChristiansXmas Tree

I regret that my husband and I didn’t raise our children with a stronger religious faith. They don’t know the Lord’s Prayer or a Thanksgiving grace or the traditional Christmas hymns, and I feel the loss of that during these frenetic five weeks we have come to call “the holidays.”

Baptized a Methodist (my childhood religion) and raised in a Unitarian Universalist fellowship during his elementary school years, Nate at 19 is now an atheist. He questions why I would pine for some shared, sentimental religious feeling that our family hasn’t earned.

“An atheist’s approach to the holidays isn’t that different from the average Christian’s approach,” he says. “Christians will just say grace before the meal. I think Christmas has been secularized in the majority of the United States. There are plenty of casual Christians and families that aren’t religious who celebrate Christmas for the sake of giving gifts and having a meal.”

Studies support his claim. According to the Pew Research “Religion and Public Life” project, 90 percent of Americans celebrate Christmas, but only half view it as “mostly” a religious holiday, and fully a third say it’s cultural — a chance to gather with friends and family.

My own family celebrated Thanksgiving this year at the home of non-religious friends. No one offered to lead a prayer before the meal, so I raised a toast to the cooks who had prepared two entrées, three desserts, four appetizers and more.

During our talk the next day I asked my son whether he prays, in any form.

“No, not prayer,” he said. “Because prayer implies something religious, and I’m not religious. It doesn’t mean I don’t hope for things. I hope that I’ll do well on my finals, but I’m certainly not going to pray to God to let me get an A.”

What about offering thanks to whomever or whatever may be guiding our lives?

“For the most part, I think gratitude is expressed in small moments on a day-to-day basis. You make me a sandwich and I say, ‘Thanks, Mom. That was nice of you to do.’ There are bigger things, like being grateful for the people in your life who are a constant, who are there through thick-and-thin.”

And whom you can love and honor, he contends, without attaching those feelings to religious faith. “I’m grateful for things that are tangible, as opposed to thanking God when there’s no apparent intervention on God’s part.”

An atheist explains

Nathaniel Gage Studer

Nathaniel Gage Studer

When I tell my son that I am “saddened” by his atheism, or find it to be a cynical choice at his age, he points out that this is a considered decision — not a failing or a whim — and that believers have no corner on moral virtue.

“If I was being very cynical,” he counters, “I’d say a lot of people weren’t fully educated in matters of religion. I think a lot of people just grew up in a church: ‘Well, it’s how I was raised, it’s what I’m going to stick with.’”

Schooled in the importance of what he calls religious literacy, Nate would choose Buddhism if he had to follow a particular practice. “But that’s true of many non-religious people,” he says. “Buddhism involves coming to terms with yourself and your surroundings, and involves less of the dogma that comes with other religions.”

However reasoned his choice, my son will have an uphill climb to convince anyone other than his mother that atheism makes sense. Americans overall regard atheists only slightly more warmly than they do Muslims and seven points below Mormons, according to a July 2014 study by Pew Research.

Black Protestants and older Americans hold atheists in especially low esteem.

Asked what frustrates him most about people’s misconceptions of atheists, Nate said it’s “the idea that every atheist hates religion and is against religion.” In fact, he says, knowledge of the world’s religions helps him understand other cultures and history’s course.

“Even though I’m not religious, I think it’s important that I understand how and why other people are religious. By being religiously literate, people can better understand what’s going on in the Middle East, why 9/11 happened — almost all that happens in the world.”

He challenges whether I, as an unchurched believer, am willing to learn more about what atheists do believe. I begin with Ricky Gervais’ distinction between spirituality and religion: “One is a very personal feeling, a journey, a hope, a need, a joy,” the comedian said on CNN last year, “and the other is an organized body that uses that for power and corruption, in many cases.”

Alzheimer’s: A Daughter’s Journey toward Acceptance

A faucet opened behind my eyes the day the neurologist told my sister and me that our mother had Alzheimer’s. I stared at him dumbly and just cried.

It wasn’t grief I was feeling — that would come later — but utter disbelief, and a childlike denial that any of this could be happening to her. To me. Despite my growing irritation with my mother’s neediness and forgetfulness, I couldn’t grasp that she would ever cease to be the generous, self-centered, loving, demanding, cunning, creative woman I had known.

Until she did. Nearly three years later, this is our story.

“Be a daughter”

My mother, Audrie Gage

My mother, Audrie Gage

I visit my mother twice a week at her senior apartment, 3.1 miles from my house. (“It’s a 5K,” I like to tell her, even though she never asks me what that means.) I check her fridge for spoiled food. I drop her garbage down the chute. I vacuum the tiny white bits off the rug from the toilet paper she stuffs in her underpants to mask incontinence, a sign of middle-stage Alzheimer’s. I remind her to eat. I make her drink water.

The diagnosis came in February 2012. For some months afterward, Mom still did her own laundry and bought her own groceries. We went to our favorite coffee shop every Saturday morning, and then I’d leave her there (leave her!) to finish her muffin and visit the library across the street while I went off to my weekly women’s group.

More recently, as Mom has lost the ability to navigate her surroundings, I’ve picked her up every weekend and taken her wherever I need to go — to the bank, the hairdresser, the pharmacy, the dog park — on the assumption that the stimulation will be good for her.

What I haven’t done is be her daughter.

Only once since the diagnosis have I simply sat with my mother: watching TV together, eating cookies, applying lotion to the cracked soles of her feet. Never have I asked in anything more than perfunctory tones how she is doing or whether she understands that she has Alzheimer’s.

Even more out of character for me — a professional communicator, a former journalist — is that I no longer can engage her in conversation. Our once wide-ranging talks have narrowed to the same rote questions about her checkbook, her next meal and whether Hillary Rodham Clinton will run for president. (I occasionally remind her that she supported Obama over Hillary — and over my objections — back in 2008.)

“Don’t just be her caregiver. Be her daughter,” the manager of the senior housing complex told me shortly after Mom moved in. That requires a measure of patience and compassion I can’t access with any consistency.

Performing tasks, keeping her life organized, arranging for the health aide who now washes Mom’s hair and doles out her daily pills feeds my workaholic nature. It also keeps me from — dare I say it? — leaning in and having to face the hard truths of her decline. “Can you be in denial if you know you’re in denial?” I ask my friends, feigning an amusement I don’t feel.

If I stay within my comfort zone of competence, I can hold on to the belief that Mom will never slide into Alzheimer’s final stage — when she’s immobile, uncommunicative and unaware of who I am. The daughter who was her favorite, her baby girl.

“Are you my mother?”Mother Book

My mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s — the most common type of dementia — six weeks before her 86th birthday. Half of seniors over age 85 experience some form of dementia, a statistic that had me question whether the specialists at the University of Minnesota Memory Care Clinic weren’t just “medicalizing old age.”

That isn’t proving to be true. When my three siblings visit from their respective homes in San Francisco, Denver and Boston, they’re aghast at the changes they see in Mom: her growing confusion, her fixations, her toddler-like refusal to eat, which strikes me as her last-gasp effort at control.

Mom used to knit complex cabled sweaters. She took pride in following the news. She liked to read and walk, to see movies and plays, to travel and watch cop shows on TV. A pretty woman whose features were divvied up among her daughters, she liked to shop at Dayton’s and dress in style.

Our annual trips to New York during my early adolescence were lessons in both fashion and fine art. Thanks to her, I saw Katharine Hepburn, Ben Vereen, Lauren Bacall and James Stewart on Broadway. I heard Carmen at the Met. I took dance lessons at Luigi’s Jazz Centre and bought an outfit at Saks Fifth Avenue.

Today, I have to remind Mom to change her clothes. “It’s like you’re the mother now,” she says cheerfully when I instruct her to wear a long-sleeved shirt in November. A chronic complainer who nursed her grudges like a dry martini, Mom has mellowed as her brain has lost its “stickiness,” to quote the terse neurologist.

After tests betrayed the early-stage Alzheimer’s our mother had been hiding, the doctor told my sister Penny and me that we would feel the symptoms of the disease. “Your mother will be fine. She thinks she’s fine,” he said. “You’re the ones who will have trouble.”

Penny still can quote the word-association game the neurologist used to diagnose our mother:

  • River
  • Daughter
  • Table

He’d ask Mom to repeat the words every five minutes after he had distracted her with other conversation. It was a quiz, a trap, and we had to watch as she got snared. The clinic was by a river. She was at the appointment with her daughters. She was sitting at a table. “I’ll never forget those words,” my sister says.

“And acceptance is the answer”

It’s taken months for me to work up the nerve to write this essay, to see the underside of my moodiness and distance — a grownup child’s unwillingness to let go of her mom.

Even at a stage when she still recognizes me and remembers the basic outline of my life — that I have a husband and two grown sons and a profession — my mother has lost her innate maternal ability to comfort, to serve as refuge.

My mother cannot mother me. She is a noun now, not a verb. And when I allow myself to open the door that her diagnosis cracked and peer down the dark hallway — to wrestle with the fear and the denial, the anger and the injustice — then I recognize the emotions as the grief they truly are.

I miss my mother, and she’s never coming back.

Learn more: http://alzheimers.about.com/od/whatisalzheimer1/a/What-Is-Alzheimers-Disease.htm