Chapter 19: Fortifying My Fragile Faith
My real name is James.
I usually go by Jaime, but on my birth certificate it says James.
My mother wanted to name me something that began with a J. Dad was John. My big brother was JT (John Thomas). Then Jackie and Joanie. I’d be followed by Jeff and Jill.
Mom’s sister, my Aunt Ann, had lived in Paris and suggested “Jaime.” J’aime (sounds like Jay-mee) translates as “I love” as in j’aime le chocolat (I love chocolate).
Their thinking was, I love (this baby boy.) Or something like that. Aunt Ann was a literary agent and writer, married to the Pulitzer Prize winning columnist, Art Buchwald. But her creativity didn’t go over well with the Catholic Diocese of Columbus, Ohio.
The priests at St. Joseph’s told my parents they couldn’t baptize me unless I had a Catholic saint’s name. They acquiesced and named me James, but pushed back by calling me Jaime.
So the church and I were at odds from the start. I never waged war with Catholicism, but I never embraced it, either.
From grades one through eight, I attended Catholic schools (St. Barnabas and St. Timothy). I wasn’t completely comfortable at St. Barnabas and coveted public school attendance.
Too many of the Catholic nuns were mean. Around their waists, adjacent to their rosaries, they wore perforated spanking paddles.
I didn’t like always having to wear a uniform (navy blue pants, light blue shirt, navy blue tie, dark socks, hard-soled shoes).
We had to memorize Baltimore Catechism questions and answers:
Who is God? The infinitely perfect Spirit who created and sustains all things.
Why did God make me? To know, love, and serve Him here on earth, and to enjoy eternal happiness with Him in Heaven.
Where is God? God is everywhere.
And so on.
It wasn’t like I disagreed with the prepackaged, straightforward answers. As an eight-year-old, I didn’t question them. I just didn’t like memorizing them.
For a while I thought there were only two religions. Catholic and “public.” I had Catholic friends at school and “public” friends I met playing little league baseball and football.
At the start of 7th grade, our family moved from Northfield, Ohio to Trenton, Michigan. I wanted to go to the large, public Trenton Junior High. Surprisingly, mom allowed it. (Maybe because it was free? St. Tims cost about $100/month back then. Today that would only be about $900, so who knows? Mom was not predictable.)
Trenton Junior High shocked me with its size and chaos. Kids were loud and everywhere. After one day, I was over it. I didn’t expect to miss the ritual and order of Catholic school, but I did.
The next day I walked into the quiet halls of St. Timothy School. I remember telling my mom, “This is more like it.”
The two years I spent at St. Tims were pivotal, but not because of religion. My teachers and classmates influenced and shaped me. Not Catholicism.
As an adult, I’ve flitted in and out of church. I taught my daughters’ catechism classes, but not with much conviction. I like the idea of church and the nostalgia of church. Not church.
Over the years, like many Catholics, I drifted. And like many people, I searched. I sought a spirituality that could comfort me.
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After Kihei died, Kyrra gave me Gary Kowalski’s book, Goodbye, Friend: Healing Wisdom for Anyone Who Has Ever Lost a Pet.
It helped.
When I learned that Gary was an American Unitarian Universalist (UU) minister, I was intrigued. JT had once considered becoming a Unitarian minister. He didn’t, but I liked reading some of the stuff he studied. I was drawn to the UU’s inclusive philosophy and seven principles:
The inherent worth of every person
Justice
Acceptance
Truth
Wisdom
Wisdom from diverse spiritual sources
Spiritual growth
I especially like number six — wisdom from diverse spiritual sources. That’s what I seek. (Isn’t that what everyone should seek?)
Gary lived in Sante Fe, New Mexico. He agreed to meet up over breakfast. I thanked him for writing Goodbye, Friend and got him to autograph my copy. We talked about Kihei, then shifted to spirituality. I don’t know exactly what I was hoping to learn from him, and that may have been the problem.
When he asked me what questions I had, I asked him what he thinks happens when we die. He turned it around and asked me “What do you think happens?” When I pressed him to express his beliefs, he said he didn’t know what happens when we die.
Fair. Honest. But I was hoping for something more than that.
Our meeting was nice. I’m glad I met Gary. He was kind, and took the time to meet with me. But I didn’t drive away changed.
I wasn’t ready to give up on the UU church, though. At a Sunday morning gathering in Taos, I met a congregant named Irene who encouraged me to be open during my trip. She advised me to not stick too tightly to a planned itinerary. “Let it all unfold,” she said.
I liked that. I liked her. I took her counsel to heart.
I attended another UU service in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. But when the ministers asked us to stand, sing, and dance, I was uncomfortable. I’m more into listening and quiet contemplation than physical participation.
I like UU’s core tenants, but after Chapel Hill, my interest in it waned.
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Since college when I first saw the One People One Planet… Please posters, I’ve been curious about the Baháʼí Faith.
Circa 1978
“One People, One Planet.” No further recruitment was needed to draw me into a Baháʼí Faith meeting in Scottsdale, Arizona. Some really interesting and intelligent people told me about themselves and their beliefs.
It was a good experience. I liked going and learning and even looked into Baháʼí groups in SoCal. Maybe the fact that I haven’t gone to any meetings says something — that the Baháʼí spark isn’t quite there.
That may be on me, though. Perhaps I’ve given up on it too soon?
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I didn’t drive to meet with Shaun Martin on the Navajo Reservation in Chinle, Arizona to talk about spirituality. But when his My Vital Lesson included passing on Navajo “cultural values” to his students, I needed to know what those values are.
His answer spoke to me deeply — maybe more than any other religious ideology I’ve learned.
The Diné (Navajo) worldview includes a strong connection between people and the land and with ancestors and each other. The connection is practiced through ceremony, story, art, and daily practice. Shaun, for example, starts each morning with a run toward the sunrise, shouting in celebration of the dawn of a new day.
The heart of Diné culture is hózhó — balance and harmony. Avoiding lack or excess. Similar, I think, to the eastern yin/yang philosophy.
Partly (mostly) because of Kihei, the Diné spirtual belief I connect to most is their deep reverence for animals. They view animals not as inferior creatures, but as essential spiritual partners. To the Diné, all living creatures are equal. Part of hózhó is emphasizing harmony with animals.
Much of the world doesn’t. Animals don’t get the love respect they should. They’re certainly not treated equally.
They should be. For example,
Why all creatures deserve honor
__________
I had Ricky Borba for both 7th and 8th grade English. He was bright, but kind of a smart aleck. He questioned and challenged, but with a sense of humor. Like a lot of 13-14-year-old boys, he didn’t (outwardly) take much seriously.
Which was why I liked him so much. I respected his irreverence. And he made class interesting. He was the president of “The Butt Warmer Club,” a group of four guys who, on chilly winter mornings, chose to sit on top of the radiator—a rectangular classroom heater—rather than at their desks.
That the grown-up Ricky is a film director is no surprise—he was always creative.
Ricky Borba, President, The Butt Warmers Club
Still, if you had told me back then that Ricky Borba would be making Christian-themed films, and that he would attend William Jessup University, double majoring in Pastoral Care and Theology, or that he would have written this book, I would have said, “No way. You must be thinking of someone else.”
Perhaps Ricky’s faith was always there, but I didn’t see it. I didn’t see it because I didn’t equate humor, fun, and creativity with faith. When I was in 7th grade, the kids (and adults) who were funny weren’t “religious.” Religious people were strict, serious, often mean, and usually boring.
Ricky and I have stayed in touch, and he’s never been any of those things. I was at his wedding. I know all about his five kids. I visited him in Tennessee at the Keestone Resort in Loretto where he’s directing his movies. His favorites (so far) are Hope for the Holidays and Wedding at Keestone. He’s living his dream, and there’s nothing better for a teacher to witness than that.
What I love about Ricky’s life is how it blends. His faith with his family. His family with his friends. His work with his passion… There’s no compartmentalization. No disparate parts.
I envy that. My life is a farm full of silos. Is a strong spiritual life what I need to knock them down and combine what’s inside? I’d like to collect the contents of each silo, then stuff everything inside one big barn. Is that a weird wish?
Full disclosure: This is an AI-generated image.
I asked for “a lovely farm (with these labeled silos) and “some animals.”
I did not ask for an image of a French Bulldog that looks a lot like Kihei. Chat GPT put her in anyway.
Strange?
I had that feeling in Appalachia when I met with Traci, Mary, and Rusty. Their lives didn’t seem siloed. Their religion didn’t feel like a part of them; it was them. It seemed like it was connected to all parts of their lives.
That’s how I’d like it. As a kid, religion was a class at school (we actually got a grade in religion) or Sunday mass — separate from everything else. As an adult, I’m trying to weave spirituality into my entire day, not just during a morning prayer or meditation.
So far, the results are mixed.
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When I began my roadtrip, I was evenly torn: half of me believed in something beyond this world, the other half was fearful that death was the end of the story. I hoped there was something beyond this life, but hope and belief aren’t synonyms.
Religious people talk about having a strong faith. In the Bible, Hebrews 11:1 defines faith as “the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.”
Yeah, I don’t have that kind of assurance or conviction.
I’m grateful that, for me, the world offers love, beauty, pleasure, gratification, and kefi—those small, simple bursts of joy that make life feel full.
But I’m highly aware that, simultaneously, the world is filled with hate, ugliness, pain, discontent, and daily sorrows. I totally understand why Queen’s “Under Pressure” includes these lyrics.
“It’s the terror of knowing what this world is about
Watching some good friends say, “Let me out”
I’ve never gotten that far, but I get it. Viewed through too many lenses, this world is miserable.
I embrace the Japanese word, kaizen (continuous improvement). Although the Earth has its strengths, our planet has too many weaknesses to be the best the universe has to offer.
For example, nature is Earth’s greatest asset. So much of it is perfection. Plants emit oxygen, and we breathe oxygen. We exhale carbon dioxide, and plants absorb it. Caterpillars transform into butterflies. Acorns turn into oaks. We’ve got oceans, beaches, rivers, mountains, forests, waterfalls, and rainbows.
But nature is also responsible for human evolution and humans haven’t evolved very well. For every Rosa Parks, there’s a reason we need a Rosa Parks.
And I get the whole predator-prey thing—how it keeps nature in balance and all that. But I hate living in a world where hawks eat baby squirrels, lions attack elephants, and orcas plot to devour baby humpback whales. Yes, that’s nature, but I hate it.
There’s a lot I won’t miss about Earth.
But there’s a lot I will. Throughout my journey and beyond, it feels as though the universe keeps offering quiet signs and gentle reminders that Earth is not the be-all and end-all. (Thank God.)
The Buddy Holly site and the white Chevy Traverse “coincidence.”
The donkey that reminded me of me.
The Mississippi and its tributaries.
The prayer Mary, Rusty, and Traci said for me in Pikeville.
While wandering in Chicago, I stumble upon a church — St. James.
The way so many meetups unfolded—with those I meant to meet and those I met by chance—felt meant to be.
Silly? Superstitious? Maybe. But doesn’t this prove that it’s delusional, arrogant, and absurd to think that Earth is all there is?
Earth from space - as Carl Sagan put it, “a pale blue dot” in the universe
And sometimes the signs that there’s a greater spiritual power aren’t quiet, and the reminders aren’t gentle. They’re loud and powerful.
There’s Jen Anderson’s story.
Twenty-eight years ago, Jennifer Joy Anderson sat near the front of my 8th grade American History classroom. She was extraordinarily bright, witty, and aware. I remember having side discussions with her during class about deep topics. Side discussions because, often, she was the only kid there who understood what I was referencing or what I was talking about. She was precocious.
Jen went on to graduate from the University of Southern California, married a sailor, and was living with him and her twin sons when I visited her at the Little Creek/Fort Story military base in Virginia.
As with Ricky, I hadn’t thought of Jen as especially religious or spiritual. She was, and still is, practical and down-to-earth.
After I met all her men and got reacquainted with her visiting mother, we went for a walk around the base. We sat at a bench and Jen told me this remarkable story. I was going to paraphrase it, but my retelling wouldn’t do it justice. So here, in her words (by permission) is what happened to her.
God healed my body.
As most of you know, when I was pregnant with the twins, I severely separated my pelvis, which I didn't even find out about until after I delivered them. None of the doctors knew what was going on; when they took out my epidural, I was in worse pain than when I was in active labor.
It took them 3 days to finally get me x-rayed to confirm the injury, and the orthopedic specialist said that in his 17 year career, he'd never seen a dislocation as bad as mine (except in textbooks).
I spent almost as much time in the hospital as my babies spent in the NICU (almost 2 weeks). I couldn't move my body from the waist down. I was in excruciating pain ALL THE TIME. Every second of the day, I was in blinding, mind-numbing pain. I couldn’t do anything for myself. Anything.
I had to learn how to walk again. I couldn't lie down flat, let alone walk upstairs to my bedroom, so I slept in a recliner chair for about 6 months. I couldn't even pick up my children unless someone handed them to me.
I spent a year in intensive physical therapy three times a week. I was dealing with postpartum depression, on top of regular depression, on top of anxiety. I had given up on God. I was so angry and frustrated. I couldn't understand why He would answer such a huge prayer (we prayed for healthy twins and had them with no medical intervention), and then strike me with such a heavy burden.
I was miserable. I pressed on, and spent two solid years from the time they were born until July 14, 2017 enduring endless frustration and chronic pain, every single moment of the day. But that day, at my sister-in-love and brother-in-love's rehearsal dinner, I met a woman.
During the party, she took me aside and asked if she could pray for me. That woman took me into another room, laid hands on me, and prayed in the Holy Spirit, and I literally felt my bones come back together. The pain left immediately, and it never returned.
I've had full range of motion ever since. The doctors said I might never walk without a limp again. They said I would probably be in pain the rest of my life. They said I should have had the surgery to bolt my pelvic plates back together.
But here I am, two years later (now ten). I can run, I can dance, I can jump, I can leap, I can wear my stilettos, I can chase after these gigantic kids, I can take care of them by myself when my hubby deploys, and I have ZERO pain.
No one can convince me that God isn't real, and that He's not still in the healing business. I've experienced it firsthand for myself. You don't have to believe in him, and I'm not here to convince you. All I know is that one day I was bound, and the next day I was free, and I'll never forget it.
I am a miracle. To God be the glory. Be encouraged, my loves.
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My mom was a devout Catholic. She went to mass almost every day. If anyone I ever knew had faith, it was my mom. She believed.
Yet, while in hospice, in the midst of one of our last one-on-one conversations, she confessed her fear.
“Jaime, I’m scared. What if I’m wrong about everything? What if none of what I’ve believed my whole life is true?”
What do you tell your dying mother when she tells you that she’s scared to die?
I told her that one of humanity’s greatest fears is the unknown. And the greatest unknown of all is what happens when we die.
“Mom, if you weren’t afraid, it would be weird. What you’re feeling is exactly what you should be feeling.”
I don’t know if it was the best or right thing to say, but that’s what I told her.
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If you’d asked me on Day 1 of my trip what the odds were of there being a greater power—and a life beyond this one—I would’ve said 50/50.
At best.
Now, I’d say 75/25.
Not the solid, sure-thing answer I sought. But it’s where I’m at.
