We attended services at the Methodist church sporadically and we socialized with the minister's family who happened to live on our block. We had friends from many walks and backgrounds but matters of faith were rarely discussed in my family of origin. It wasn't that my parents didn't have beliefs--they just weren't a topic of conversation. Some of this I attribute to the fact that they owned a small business and Sunday was their only day off. The rest, I think, was because there were elements of organized religion they just couldn't reconcile. I wish I had thought to ask them about their beliefs but I never did.
Because of my upbringing, I was surprised to learn after my parents were gone that my paternal great-grandfather was a Methodist circuit riding preacher. I discovered his diary in some old papers and thought I'd uncovered a prize. I read page after page of his spare but legible handwriting and learned. . . nothing. Each day was the same: "Traveled to (name of town). Ate dinner with (name of family). Preached a good sermon. Slept at (name of town, family or landmark.)" Not a word about what he thought, felt, believed, dreaded or looked forward to. Nothing about who he encountered, loved, hated or feared. Nothing about hardships, good times or even why he was out there in the first place. In the entire journal there was only one brief entry that revealed a glimpse into his soul and it read, "Buried a child today. I hope I never have to do that again." The rest was as interesting as reading someone's DayTimer. Disappointed, I donated the journal to the Methodist Church.
Earlier I said I learned nothing from my great-grandfather's journal but that's not entirely true--I did learn one thing. I learned the importance of recording the significant experiences of my life--the highs and lows--not only as a reminder of those times for myself but also for others down the line I'll never know. I wish he had known that, too.