Sunday afternoons are quiet around here. Once church and lunch are over you can be sure that most of the household will be napping. On one such afternoon, my husband and two youngest daughters were asleep when my oldest son, Nick* showed up. Though he had lived on his own for several years, he always made time to visit when the whole family gathered for Sunday dinner. He leaned over to hug me where I was curled up on the loveseat reading.
After chatting quietly for several minutes, I felt a sudden impulse to ask Nick if he’d attended church. He was dressed in Sunday best, so the answer seemed obvious, but when I asked the question, he paused for a moment, then replied, “No…I’m not sure I believe any more.” A hot, sick feeling washed over me, though I tried not to show it outwardly. For a woman whose life revolves around religion and family, nothing could have hurt more than to hear that my child was questioning a lifetime of spiritual teachings.
A long and painful conversation followed, with me occasionally whispering questions—struggling not to weep openly—and Nick gradually spilling out feelings that had weighed on him for years. He hadn’t wanted to rock the boat in our religious family, so he’d held his skepticism inside. He’d been worried about our response, fearful that he wouldn’t fit in with the family if he turned aside from our beliefs—that everything would change.
Eventually we heard faint stirrings of life in the house as people roused from their naps, so Nick and I ended our life-shifting conversation. As we stood, he wrapped me in a tight hug, squeezing me for a long, emotional moment. It was then that I felt him tremble, and realized how much it had cost him to open his heart so completely and risk weakening his connection to the family. In that moment I understood that anything we could do to preserve our relationship with this precious son and brother would be worth the effort. With a lump in my throat, I assured Nick that our love was not dependent on everyone believing the same way.
I won’t pretend that I wasn’t devastated. As the rest of the family gathered for dinner, I pasted on a shaky half-smile and finished the food preparations, but my appetite was gone. I slipped away during the meal to release the tears I could no longer hold in, grieving Nick’s spiritual shift. It’s painful to think about even now, for I sense that something powerful is missing from his life. But in the years since that heart-wrenching afternoon, I need only recall Nick’s intense, trembling hug, and I’m more convinced than ever that maintaining family unity is far more important than fretting about our differences.
*Name changed for privacy
– Anonymous
The author is faith and family centered. She finds great pleasure in interacting with wildlife—but not bugs—and observing the change of the seasons.