A neighbor said, “Your family’s super religious, though, right?”
“Yes, yes we are.” I grinned from ear to ear. But religious for her probably means something totally different than it does for me. We moved on in the conversation, scampering down a different rabbit trail. But journals and blog posts such as this are the perfect venues to work out the “what I should’ve saids or what I could’ve saids…”
I could’ve said, “Yes, yes we are (and I am) religious. If by “religious” you mean that every morning I wake, I give thanks to God for the long breaths that miraculously, thoughtlessly move within me. That when I schedule my day, my number one priority is communion with the Divine Creator of the universe and beyond. That I talk to Jesus when I drive in the car (there seems to be so much driving these days), complain to Him, apologize for my complaints, complain that I complain so much, stop, laugh at my mile-a-minute brain, and then attempt to quiet myself before Him….if that’s what you mean, then yes, I am religious.”
But I think, and this is only an assumption, that she was referring to the pharisaical type of religiosity. The rule following, exterior-focused, Bible thumping religiousness. She probably hears my Dad playing church music when she walks her dog by our house. She sees us go to church on Sunday mornings. We sing in the annual block Christmas Caroling group (we Castelli’s got those harmonies diz-ow-n).
“Fully known and fully loved.” A phrase many of you know well. We all desire that. But my distortion is that I want EVERYONE to fully know me and love me. Even a female neighbor that I barely know. As I type this out, I see that it’s absurd. Sigh, Lisbeth, when are you going to get this? I’m thankful for my friendships where I am known pretty well. Like maybe 60% known (the percentages are V’s influence on me). And my family who maybe knows me 70%. But Abba, You and only YOU fully know me and fully love me. 100%.
Oh, it’s so much more than being religious. It’s everything.