Mama knelt on one of the pews up front. Amelia joined her. Amelia’s family had not gone to church, did not “pray,” were not familiar with all the religious mumbo-jumbo I’d grown up with. I had thought about taking the children to mass, had decided against it. I could not explain to myself exactly why. It wasn’t just my experience of sexual abuse at the hands of Father Michael when I was in grade school, although that surely colored my perceptions. There was something beyond that, something deeper. Something I couldn’t get at. Some loss of faith, loss of the ability to believe.
After saying prayers with Mama, Amelia came to the back and sat next to me.
“Memaw says you don’t pray anymore,” she whispered.
“God and I don’t get along these days.”
“Why not?”
“It’s complicated.”
“You can tell me. I’m not a baby.”
“It’s a long story.”
“Are you a Buddhist like Papa?”
“Has he been going on and on about the Dalai Lama again?”
“Who’s the Dalai Lama?”