I was raised to be humble, to always think of others, not to be selfish, not to brag, and to always remember how much better off I was than most of the people in the world. A large part of this came from the Christian, specifically Congregationalist and Presbyterian, aspects of my heritage, and the way they intertwined with the specific Midwestern German cultures of my grandparents. Some of it certainly came from my parents' experiences traveling and living abroad and interacting with refugees. And some may have come from a family propensity to depression and related disorders.
So I've grown up bad at taking compliments, bad at saying no to volunteering, and terrible at spending money, especially on myself. I don't want to draw attention. I never want to speak in public unless my facts are unassailable, my preparation impeccable...and everyone else is too busy. I don't want to turn in school or work assignments that aren't perfect. My parents and my culture meant to teach me humility, but what I learned was shame.
I'm searching for a job, and writing and sending resumes and cover letters is the most painful thing in the world. It's not the writing...not mostly... I like writing, and it can come very easily... What I hate and do poorly is sales, especially when my work is the product, or I am. I paid for a professionally-written resume, and I think the person it describes sounds pretty awesome...and very little like me.
My mother once told me that she didn't think living a decent life and raising your family to be happy was enough to qualify you as a good person who had really served Christ. I'm not sure I disagree with that; I'm not against caring about, and working for, the good of other people, whether you know them or not. There's a lot of suffering and injustice that needs fixing. But somehow the way I grew up thinking about it just led to guilt and feelings of failure.
And then there came the days, and months, and years when getting out of bed and holding down a job were more than I could handle. The pinnacle of Good Person status seemed even higher and more unattainable from the depths of my personal abyss.
Yet even there I could know my gods. On days when I couldn't send an email, I could reach for the weak, long-dormant stirrings of poetry in my soul and reach out to Bragi. On days when all I could manage was feeding the cat, I could touch my husband, or myself, and know the power in joy that Freya can impart. Even when I lived in a tiny apartment with nothing but a stump in the gravel yard, I could hear, and feel, the crack of thunderbolts, and pour out a beer for Thor.
We Heathens have a few basic rituals, and one of them is sumbel. We pass a cup or horn, and toast, and boast, and hail, and occasionally swear. Before I ever knew that I would call myself a Heathen, I joined the Society for Creative Anachronism and sat in toasting circles. Pass the bottle, drink (or don't), and give a toast, make a boast, sing a song, tell a story, share a joke, do a trick... Mostly we sang songs and toasted our heroes and friends, living and dead. I sang a lot of songs, and wrote quite a few, as well. It felt like my soul had come home.
I never liked to sit in church, and now I don't have to. Sometimes I listen to sermons online. I listen to a lot of podcasts about religion. But for me the religious experience is much more about gathering, in the woods if you can, to share some of yourself with your folk and your gods.
I've done that quite a bit lately, but always alone, and I miss having a group to do it with. Every time I craft words to honor something that's important to me, I feel like I'm getting stronger. I can boast of my own deeds (though it's agonizingly hard, still, to see what I've done that's good enough). And I can honor the work and sacrifice of old heroes without thinking I need to live in their image. My grandmother. My parents. Archbishop Romero. Jesus.
Heathens spend a fair amount of time discussing what it means to adopt the worldview of this ancestral folkway, and the difficulties in doing that while percolating in a Christian culture. I'm not much worried about that. I don't really think there was much wrong (for me) with my worldview or ethics growing up; there was just a mismatch between my declared Christianity and the beliefs and practices I found to be true and meaningful. There is a wide variety of ways to be a Christian, and many of those traditions, especially in my Protestant heritage, were shaped by our Germanic pagan ancestors.
Wherever I am, I want to show my love and honor to everyone who shaped me, supported me, taught me, and inspired my search for spiritual fulfillment. I am so, so grateful that I don't have to choose between my faith and my family, or my current religious communities and the welcoming one I grew up in.
Christian friends of Christian family members often say insensitive things, assuming everybody in the room shares their assumptions. And my mom continues to buy books about The Easter Story and whatnot for my kids. I have to explain how these things feel, and why I want them to stop. But we have blended our Heathen and Christian holiday decorations and music. We live on the upstairs floor of my parents' house, they lent me a table for my altar, and their greatest concern is that I'll leave candles unattended.
My grandmother used to live up here too, and her influence is everywhere. In the mittens she knitted for my kids, and the knitting skills she taught them. In the pie pans and muffin tins she used to bake us wonderful, nourishing food. In the Bible quotes and little model churches decorating the kitchen. The mightiest of my Disir hang out with Jesus, and we're all fine with that. I look forward to toasting them among my Beloved Dead. I'm still proud of them, and hope they are of me. I think they are and should be. I feel more like a superhero-in-training each day.
--Lonespark


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