Don’t Be Afraid

Here follows part of an email written by my friend Susan Bardwell some years ago. Susan passed away last November after a brief fight with lung cancer. We miss her terribly. I must have written to her complaining that some religious proselytizers had come by the house and she responded:

"I have a shocking confession. My mother joined a Kingdom Hall when I was young, and I was a Jehovah’s Witness until I was about 10. When they come to our door I always tell them right away that I was once a Witness, and disagree entirely and will never join theirs or any other church. Then I invite them in for a cool drink."

(Susan lived south of Houston, Texas. Around here we would invite them in for a warm drink.)

She continued: "I feel sorry for them. Not because they believe and I don’t. I may be wrong, the rest of you may be right. I’ve wished sometimes that I could believe, and be comforted in the belief. But I can’t, any more than you could stop.

"I feel badly for them because they believe their truth is god’s truth and that every person who is lost because they are not told of the truth is on their heads. They really believe that. That’s what sends them out on the streets to be hated and berated.

"My grandma was a Seventh Day Adventist, and raised all her children that way. My mom left home young and set about finding a new religion. About the time I was born she discovered the Witnesses and stuck with them until I was 10 or so. That’s when I threw what is commonly called a "wall-eyed shit fit" and said I wasn’t going anymore.

"This all had to do with a young woman in the congregation that I liked particularly well. Her name was Nancy. Nancy was 19, and she got pregnant and she wasn’t married. This would have been 1964, and it was a big deal.

The Witnesses have (or had, anyway) a particularly nasty way of dealing with unmarried pregnancy. The unfortunate young woman is ostracized from the congregation for a period of years, continues to attend services, and undergoes some form of counseling. The rest of the congregation is not to speak to her or notice her, including her parents. I knew in my 10-year-old heart that any god who would want people including her own parents to treat someone as nice as Nancy that way was a jackhole, and I told Mama so.

"Mama never made me go to the Hall again. One day about a year after I quit, Mama came home with Nancy and baby in tow, and we all sat in the living room and laughed and played with the baby and drank tea. And Mama never went back again after that.

"She never stopped looking for religions, but she never took one up again. I don’t think it ever occurred to her that you could be a good person without a religion. I wish she had lived now, when some people can learn that you’re a non-believer without immediately thinking you must be an uncaring, evil person.

"I was with Mama when she died. She was unconscious, but she squeezed my hand when I said, "Mama, I’m here," and then she opened her eyes for just a second. I thought she looked terrified, and immediately thought of religion, or the lack of it, as the culprit, and tried to find anything comforting to say. All I could think of was to touch her face the way she had when I was little - her hands were always cool and felt so good - and I said, "Don’t be afraid."

"Years and years later, I got to meet the Dalai Lama. I used my status as a reporter to cadge a spot in the reception committee. He came down the line so politely, beaming and bowing to everyone. He made eye contact with everyone, but he didn’t speak except to thank some of the people or greet the ones he knew. I was way far down the line, watching every move he made like a hawk, and I got scared as he made his way toward me, because he looked like he might know things about all of us. I can’t explain this. By the time he was nearly to me I had the damnedest urge to bolt away before he could look at me. I didn’t, of course, and when he got to me he bowed and beamed and looked into my face and I thought first he was standing there longer than he had with anyone else, then I thought, it just seems that way because I’m anxious, and then he reached out and touched my cheek and said, "Don’t be afraid."

"Probably not a mystical experience. ‘Don’t be afraid’ is such a common thing to say to someone, and touching someone’s face isn’t that odd, especially since I probably looked as if I was about to pee my pants. Not even that odd that him doing it should have reminded me of doing it for Mama. But at that moment, and possibly still, I would have followed him through fire.

"Sending you peace from unwanted visitors (have you thought of a "bad dog" sign? have you thought of a bad dog?) and love, Susan"

Please address comments regarding this article to me at
shipoftuels@hotmail.com. Thanks.