The Shape of After

There is a stack of Bibles on my piano. They belonged to the women who raised me.

None of them are particularly meaningful to me as religious objects. As evidence, however, they are devastating.

I see them every day. Sometimes I look right past them. Sometimes they stop me in my tracks. What bothers me is that they aren’t just books. They’re artifacts. They’re proof of the lives my mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother lived. That they lived entire lives before I arrived. That they loved, struggled, worried, hoped, prayed, sang hymns, raised children, buried parents, and somehow kept moving forward through all of it.

And now they’re gone. The funny thing about Bibles is they pass down through generations. Now I’m the last of the generation and the Bibles remain. I’m the one left holding them.

I don’t really share the beliefs that made those books important. If I were religious, if I believed what they did, perhaps I would find comfort in them. If they belonged to strangers, they would just be old books. Instead they occupy a painful middle ground.

I don’t believe what they believed. But I loved the people who believed it.

My family was made up of women of faith. One generation played hymns on the piano and sang them with her children. Another generation watched the Gaither Gospel Hour and Joel Osteen and believed every word. Another believed in God, angels, spirits, and something beyond this life even while remaining skeptical of organized religion.

They weren’t perfect. They disagreed with one another. They interpreted things differently. But they all believed. I cannot, yet, some of my favourite memories are wrapped up in those Bibles and the ratty hymnal I stole from the family Baptist church after my grandfather’s funeral.

Easter wasn’t church, for me. Not a proper church. It was kitchen-table church. Singing off-key hymns around the kitchen table, out of that ratty songbook, followed by ham. And laughter. And love. But, the songs are what are vivid to me. So many childhood memories of sitting around a piano with someone banging out hymns. Joy Unspeakable. I’ll Fly Away. The Old Rugged Cross. These are still the songs I listen to when I am sad, but it isn’t about God. I haven’t magically changed my mind about that. The songs are important because of the people. The love. They are important because they sound like a home I no longer have. Every hymn feels connected to the women who sang them. The women who raised me. The women whose Bibles now sit on my piano.

I sometimes wish I could believe what they believed. Not because I’m convinced they’re right, but because I’m a little jealous of the comfort they found. The peace, and the certainty. When life became difficult, they had somewhere to put their fear. They had someone to hand it to, or at least someone to walk beside them. I wish I had someone to walk beside me in this, but the people I want are gone.

There is a part of me that is heartbroken to think I have disappointed them. That they would be disappointed that after all the years, and all the hymns, after all those attempts to pass something meaningful down to me, I failed to receive it.

That I am not what they hoped I would become.

I’m sure they wouldn’t say that if they were here, but without them, it’s the only voice I can hear. This must be what it is to be living in grief, like it’s a country of its own. Grief is not interested in truth, but in guilt and maintaining anguish. It doesn’t want to let you move through it. What would it be without you?

The Bibles are still on my piano. They hurt me because they’re a constant reminder that everyone who loved them is gone. Everyone who loved me is gone.

I am now the keeper of what remains. Of the stories, the memories, the songs, and the traditions. I inherited all of that, but not the certainty that there is something beyond this life. The Bibles don’t hurt because they represent a faith that I’m unconsciously seeking, they hurt because they represent generations of love that I have lost.

I’m not sure what the point of this post is. It’s just a collection of thoughts after I found three more Bibles today, while unpacking boxes. Added them to the stack. Thought about why that hurt so much.

I also listened to some gospel bangers, and did my best to curate a top 10 list that even slap for non-believers:

1. I’ll Fly Away (total jam)
2. How Great Thou Art
3. Great Is Thy Faithfulness (Carrie Underwood and Vince Gill. There is no other.)
4. Because He Lives
5. Be Not Afraid
6. The Gounod version of Ave Maria (Schubert is also great, and I like it in French) 7. In The Sweet By And By
8. It Is Well With My Soul
9. You Are Mine
10. Psalm 121

I don’t listen to these hymns to find some God-based meaning. I listen because they contain the voices of my mother. My grandmother. My great-grandmother. I hear them in the music and the words. For me, these songs don’t belong to religion. They belong to memory.