The Jewish Woman in the United Methodist Church

There's a woman in my church and to say she is involved is to do her a disservice. We've been acquaintances for years -- we've both been involved in media and marketing, we have some mutual friends, etc. Our paths have crossed often.

She's on church committees. She might be handing out the bulletin one week and passing the collection plate the next. (I have never done these things.)

When she began showing up in church a few years ago, I was mildly shocked. She was dating a man who attended our church and whose family has been there a lot longer than my family. I said to my mother, "I thought she was Jewish."

She is. But she has embraced this little church. She works for it. In some ways, she married into it. Lots of couples who have different religions go their separate ways. Instead, she chose to be inclusive and included.

The reporter in me is curious. Does it feel funny when we take communion? Do you feel embraced? (I hope she does.) Do you go to Temple and pray for guidance or do you pray for forgiveness for having a foot in both camps?

I have no preconceived notions. I have a lot of admiration.

Walking Into a Memory

On Saturday, the husband and I went to a friend's home for dinner. He and his girlfriend prepared a fabulous meal and could not have been more gracious. It was a roller coaster of laughs, food, music ... and tears.

My friend, Patsy, was his wife. The last time I stepped in this house, I was visiting her after surgery. I knew he had remodeled/recedorated and I was anxious to see it. I was also just plain anxious. I used to be able to drive to this place in my sleep. We have had girlfriend sleepovers and SuperBowl parties there. We sat in the kitchen and solved the problems of the world.

Crossing the threshold was like walking through foam. I expected her to walk up to me, cup my face with her little hands and kiss me in greeting. (Then she would tell me what was wrong with my life.)

I didn't exactly boo-hoo; I just couldn't escape the memories. I really like the girlfriend but I'm sure she wanted to slap me: Just stop it!

Although she was Jewish, Patsy's final days were spent in a Catholic hospital. Crucifixes everywhere. My super-funny husband would walk into the room and say, "Love your decorations." She was in a coma but her machines would go crazy.

The house has changed and although it was beautiful before, it better suits her husband now. Plus, his girlfriend must appreciate the changes.

One thing he kept was a large frame filled with friends and family. She inspired me to do this myself and it's a tedious yet worthwhile project. People get enthralled with the search. Am I in there? The husband couldn't find himself. I pointed out: she didn't like you.

The truth is she did like him but she enjoyed the dance of poking and prodding, as does he. They disagreed on so many things that it made my head spin. I learned many years ago to get out of the way.

So, I went to Patsy's house. I loved it. Patsy wanted nothing more for her husband and children than to be happy and I felt nothing but love in the house. Could anyone ask for a better legacy?

Answering to a Higher Power

Lots of surveys show us that most Americans consider themselves religious or at the very least, spiritual. They believe in a higher power, however they choose to define it.

I respect the right for others to have different beliefs than I do. I enjoy the discussions; I always learn something. Many years ago I was on a girl trip and we had some religious conversations. One of the ladies was Jewish. Another is a devout Christian. My favorite memory of that talk is when the Christian said to the Jewish person, "I'd just feel better if you'd believe in Jesus a little bit."

Of course, every time I refer to my responsibility to answer to a higher power, the husband thinks I am referring to him.

Self-Inflicted Guilt

I should be Jewish or Catholic. Aren't these the stereotypes for guilty women? Or women who do a great job of inflicting guilt? (Before anyone sends me a hateful message -- I'm just referencing stereotypes -- I didn't say I agree with them.)

I do a great job of guilt but it's mainly directed to me. Today, I feel guilty because the mother-in-law is still in the hospital and I have not been to see her. The husband has gone every day. It's not like I've been sitting around reading or eating bon bons. I've dealt with the car. I've been unraveling the medication system. I've fed and watered hangdog three times a day, plus snacks. I've changed bed linens and started the lengthy job of doing the laundry from their trip. I've kept a couple of the relatives up to date on her condition. I've investigated (or started to) senior transportation options. I've begun gathering information on assisted living facilities. With the husband's help, I've put all the holiday decorations away. In my spare time, I've written three business proposals and paid some bills.

Yet, I still feel guilty. Although I've called twice a day, I haven't been to the hospital.