“The Pain of Happiness”
Natalie Michelle Ulman
“A person has no religion who has not slowly and painfully gathered one together, adding to it, shaping it, and one's religion is never complete and final, it seems, but must always be undergoing modification.” –D.H. Lawrence
He lay on the bed bent like a twig: old, broken, and deteriorated. A fallen hero dying in the bedroom instead of the battlefield; cancer crawling in his body, destroying every piece of humanity left inside of him. He was a man full of so much happiness and life, and yet at these moments was unrecognizable and a stranger to my eyes. My entire family surrounded him silent, unwilling to believe that this was the last time we would see him. The thought of losing my Babba was too hard to bear. How could God be so cruel to a man with so much faith and pride in his Abba? His life began with suffering and it was about to end synonymously in pain. How could God give one man so many trials and so little in return? As these never ending thoughts devastated my brain I noticed my grandfather’s eyes close for a final time. I ran to him and grasped his hand in mine, clinging to him for fear I would lose him. My tears began to sprinkle onto his hand like rain falling onto flower petals. I choked out an incomprehensive “I love you” while holding tight to his sickly body. In return he whispered, “You might have a life full of hardship and sorrow, but it is merely a test. In the end it is all worth it. There is more to this life than what you see. Have hope.”
*****
The sun transcended through the ancient stained glass and magnified the colors of magenta, indigo, and royal blue. I could feel incense burn on my skin as mass commenced. Crucifixes, crosses, and archaic stone created a feeling of reverence. It was a place of history where men suffered and sacrificed to build an immense and magnificent cathedral so that future generations could worship God the Father. I was standing in an ancient place built thousands of years ago to praise Jesus Christ and love our Heavenly Father. I was standing in Notre Dame de Paris. I went to a pew, knelt, and listened to the priest recite mass in beautiful French. I could not understand everything he said, but as I listened I felt a calm spirit of happiness enter my body. I had never been more proud to be called a Catholic. At that moment, I knew that God lived. Then, as I looked up at the haunting yet exquisite crucifix in the middle of Notre Dame I realized what Jesus Christ suffered for His people and His unshakeable love for us. I did not need to understand the words of the priest. Christ’s pierced hands and feet said everything.
*****
The air tasted of potato latkes and freshly brewed matzo ball soup. I could see the Rabbinic hymns playing in the background and could feel the energy of the Jewish holiday beginning. It was the first night of Hanukkah: the menorah was lit, yamakas were worn, and dreidels were spinning. As we sat down, we began the dreaded hour long Shabbat before the meal. With the savory food tempting our eyes we began with the typical “Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha-olam…” On it went for hours as our hunger increased and our stomachs yearned for warm beef brisket and kougel. My mother, sister, and I looked unknowingly at each other as the Hebrew prayers were continually recited. As Catholics we knew little of what was being said; however, we admired my father and brother as they faithfully recited several scriptures and prayers. And then I could finally hear the beautiful words of my Babba, “Let’s eat!” We filled our faces with traditional Jewish fare and never ending conversation. In thick accent Aunt Lisa proclaimed, “Why is she not marrying a Jew? What happened to tradition?” My cousin Mark and Monica were discussing liberal politics, and my brother, Brandon made fun of my new and supposedly fashionable outfit. “Hey,” said Alanna, “I bet you three chocolate coins it will land on Gimel.” The candles on the Menorah glimmered hopefully that night.
*****
Looking out of the window I saw rain cascade onto the ground and lightning illuminate the sky. I desperately wanted to go outside. I had been stuck in my grandparent’s house for days, and the smell of mothballs and boredom had gone to my head. I sat by the window praying for sunshine when I heard footsteps: in walked my Babba. He came to the couch and put his comforting arm around my shoulders. I looked into his wrinkly face and wise eyes and proclaimed my boredom. He laughed cheerfully and in a strong Yiddish accent asked, “Do you want to hear a story then?” I smiled and nodded. I was willing to listen to anything that would occupy my time. He carefully looked into my eyes and stated, “I have never told you this story before, but I think now is the time. You are old enough to know what I went through for our God.” He proceeded to tell me his experience of the Holocaust. At age ten he witnessed his entire family murdered before his very eyes. After seeing his family shot to death he narrowly escaped the Nazis and boarded a train to Russia. He remained in hiding with a Catholic family for years. Once he was old enough he joined the Russian infantry against Nazi Germany. As a soldier he fought and then was captured and sent to a concentration camp. He was one of the few that did not die of starvation or cruel punishment. At the demise of his story my wide eyes looked unbelievingly into his. He rolled up the sleeve of his shirt and revealed dark, black numbers upon his forearm. Those numbers represented the grief of a Jewish people, the cruel nature of humans, and the suffering my grandfather had to bare. How could a man still believe in a God who made him go through such suffering? I asked how he still had faith. He answered, “The world is cruel, but God is just. Hope for a better life and the knowledge that one day I would be happy is what got me through the Holocaust.“
*****
As I lay in my bed studying The Catcher In the Rye, I suddenly heard my door burst open. My brother came in screaming, yelling at me. “What is wrong?” I cried back. My brother came to my bed, grabbed me, and thrust me against a wall. He grasped my wrists and shouted, “Why would you tell people you were half-Jewish? Now everyone knows I am a Jew!” I yelled back, “Why do you want to hide it? Six million people died because of it! Our Grandpa fought for us, so we could freely say we were Jews and not be persecuted!” He cried, “You do not understand what I have had to go through because of it! No one makes fun of you because you are Catholic. I was exposed to anti-Semitism everyday for three years, and I finally wanted a chance to start over!” I responded, “Why are you afraid to admit to our heritage? So what if people judge you! Be proud of who you are.” He glared at me viciously and stormed off. My wrists were numb.
*****
It was fast and testimony meeting at the Mormon Church and the missionaries convinced me to drag along my uninterested sister, Alanna, and my cousin, Alex. I had been attending Mormon Church for about a month now and I was not prepared to take my cousin and sister to church with me. Alanna and Alex weren’t too excited either; I think they were expecting animal sacrifice and chanting church leaders dressed in black cloaks. As church began, Alanna and Alex stared at me questionably not knowing what to expect. I was honestly a little nervous myself for what was to come. Then, the testimonies began. Suddenly, I felt that I should go to the pulpit. I ignored the prompting. I wasn’t even a member and what would Alanna and Alex think? However, the feeling did not go away. Finally, I walked down the middle of the chapel and up to the pulpit---a never ending journey of curious stares and questioning murmurs. And then I began to speak: “I would like to bear my testimony that I know the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints is true. I feel it with all my soul. I feel peace at this church, but more importantly I feel hope. Hope for a better life. I am not a member, but I want to be. I can testify that Christ lives and miracles do happen. Finding this church was my kind of miracle.”
*****
A Bar Mitzvah in Jewish culture is symbolic of when a boy becomes a man. Today is that day for my brother, Brandon. As I sat in the pew waiting with my family, I did not know what to expect. My brother had never been one to follow through with anything or finish something he started. One day he would be playing the trumpet, trying the guitar, or attempting karate, and the next he would be focusing on baseball or trying to become America’s next biggest white rap artist. Could he finally finish something and go through with his Bar Mitzvah? Just as I was contemplating this, Brandon appeared at the pulpit. As he stepped forward, he looked mature and intelligent in his dark blue suit and styled hair. Soon, he began to read from the Torah. He read the Hebrew beautifully, fast-paced, and faithfully. Once he finished everyone commented on how he would become the family’s next great Rabbi. I had never been so proud of my brother in my life. After the service I ran to him and embraced him tightly. “You were amazing!” I proclaimed in ecstasy. He just smiled back.
*****
My family is quite dysfunctional; it is an awkward mix of Jews, Catholics, Native Americans, homosexuals, Buddhists, and Atheists. But somehow we all fit together. As I sat in a lonely chair waiting to get baptized into the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints with only my sister for support I realized that I was betraying my family. I was leaving the Jewish culture my Babba had fought so hard for and the Catholic heritage I had grown up with; I was going to be alone in my family. I started crying out of fear and guilt. I had to leave this room. I had to get away. I ran, tears prickling down my face; I could hear bewilderment and murmuring in the background, but I just kept running. Finally, I went into the chapel, kneeled, and started desperately praying. “Heavenly Father, should I get baptized? Should I betray everything my family has worked so hard for?” As a pleaded alone in the chapel I felt the spirit of my Babba, and my despair converted into comfort and peace. My Babba’s words came and wrapped themselves around my heart: “You might have a life full of hardship and sorrow, but it is merely a test. In the end it is all worth it. There is more to this life than what you see. Have hope.” That was the answer. There might have been no incense, crucifixes, or yamakas in that chapel, but there was hope. It was hard betraying my family, but I wanted happiness and eternal joy: that is what the gospel of Jesus Christ gave me. It was going to be hard, and there would be many trials ahead, but I knew that this church was true. And although there were no stained glass windows or menorah to illuminate the chapel that day, I saw the sun.
Natalie Michelle Ulman
“A person has no religion who has not slowly and painfully gathered one together, adding to it, shaping it, and one's religion is never complete and final, it seems, but must always be undergoing modification.” –D.H. Lawrence
He lay on the bed bent like a twig: old, broken, and deteriorated. A fallen hero dying in the bedroom instead of the battlefield; cancer crawling in his body, destroying every piece of humanity left inside of him. He was a man full of so much happiness and life, and yet at these moments was unrecognizable and a stranger to my eyes. My entire family surrounded him silent, unwilling to believe that this was the last time we would see him. The thought of losing my Babba was too hard to bear. How could God be so cruel to a man with so much faith and pride in his Abba? His life began with suffering and it was about to end synonymously in pain. How could God give one man so many trials and so little in return? As these never ending thoughts devastated my brain I noticed my grandfather’s eyes close for a final time. I ran to him and grasped his hand in mine, clinging to him for fear I would lose him. My tears began to sprinkle onto his hand like rain falling onto flower petals. I choked out an incomprehensive “I love you” while holding tight to his sickly body. In return he whispered, “You might have a life full of hardship and sorrow, but it is merely a test. In the end it is all worth it. There is more to this life than what you see. Have hope.”
*****
The sun transcended through the ancient stained glass and magnified the colors of magenta, indigo, and royal blue. I could feel incense burn on my skin as mass commenced. Crucifixes, crosses, and archaic stone created a feeling of reverence. It was a place of history where men suffered and sacrificed to build an immense and magnificent cathedral so that future generations could worship God the Father. I was standing in an ancient place built thousands of years ago to praise Jesus Christ and love our Heavenly Father. I was standing in Notre Dame de Paris. I went to a pew, knelt, and listened to the priest recite mass in beautiful French. I could not understand everything he said, but as I listened I felt a calm spirit of happiness enter my body. I had never been more proud to be called a Catholic. At that moment, I knew that God lived. Then, as I looked up at the haunting yet exquisite crucifix in the middle of Notre Dame I realized what Jesus Christ suffered for His people and His unshakeable love for us. I did not need to understand the words of the priest. Christ’s pierced hands and feet said everything.
*****
The air tasted of potato latkes and freshly brewed matzo ball soup. I could see the Rabbinic hymns playing in the background and could feel the energy of the Jewish holiday beginning. It was the first night of Hanukkah: the menorah was lit, yamakas were worn, and dreidels were spinning. As we sat down, we began the dreaded hour long Shabbat before the meal. With the savory food tempting our eyes we began with the typical “Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha-olam…” On it went for hours as our hunger increased and our stomachs yearned for warm beef brisket and kougel. My mother, sister, and I looked unknowingly at each other as the Hebrew prayers were continually recited. As Catholics we knew little of what was being said; however, we admired my father and brother as they faithfully recited several scriptures and prayers. And then I could finally hear the beautiful words of my Babba, “Let’s eat!” We filled our faces with traditional Jewish fare and never ending conversation. In thick accent Aunt Lisa proclaimed, “Why is she not marrying a Jew? What happened to tradition?” My cousin Mark and Monica were discussing liberal politics, and my brother, Brandon made fun of my new and supposedly fashionable outfit. “Hey,” said Alanna, “I bet you three chocolate coins it will land on Gimel.” The candles on the Menorah glimmered hopefully that night.
*****
Looking out of the window I saw rain cascade onto the ground and lightning illuminate the sky. I desperately wanted to go outside. I had been stuck in my grandparent’s house for days, and the smell of mothballs and boredom had gone to my head. I sat by the window praying for sunshine when I heard footsteps: in walked my Babba. He came to the couch and put his comforting arm around my shoulders. I looked into his wrinkly face and wise eyes and proclaimed my boredom. He laughed cheerfully and in a strong Yiddish accent asked, “Do you want to hear a story then?” I smiled and nodded. I was willing to listen to anything that would occupy my time. He carefully looked into my eyes and stated, “I have never told you this story before, but I think now is the time. You are old enough to know what I went through for our God.” He proceeded to tell me his experience of the Holocaust. At age ten he witnessed his entire family murdered before his very eyes. After seeing his family shot to death he narrowly escaped the Nazis and boarded a train to Russia. He remained in hiding with a Catholic family for years. Once he was old enough he joined the Russian infantry against Nazi Germany. As a soldier he fought and then was captured and sent to a concentration camp. He was one of the few that did not die of starvation or cruel punishment. At the demise of his story my wide eyes looked unbelievingly into his. He rolled up the sleeve of his shirt and revealed dark, black numbers upon his forearm. Those numbers represented the grief of a Jewish people, the cruel nature of humans, and the suffering my grandfather had to bare. How could a man still believe in a God who made him go through such suffering? I asked how he still had faith. He answered, “The world is cruel, but God is just. Hope for a better life and the knowledge that one day I would be happy is what got me through the Holocaust.“
*****
As I lay in my bed studying The Catcher In the Rye, I suddenly heard my door burst open. My brother came in screaming, yelling at me. “What is wrong?” I cried back. My brother came to my bed, grabbed me, and thrust me against a wall. He grasped my wrists and shouted, “Why would you tell people you were half-Jewish? Now everyone knows I am a Jew!” I yelled back, “Why do you want to hide it? Six million people died because of it! Our Grandpa fought for us, so we could freely say we were Jews and not be persecuted!” He cried, “You do not understand what I have had to go through because of it! No one makes fun of you because you are Catholic. I was exposed to anti-Semitism everyday for three years, and I finally wanted a chance to start over!” I responded, “Why are you afraid to admit to our heritage? So what if people judge you! Be proud of who you are.” He glared at me viciously and stormed off. My wrists were numb.
*****
It was fast and testimony meeting at the Mormon Church and the missionaries convinced me to drag along my uninterested sister, Alanna, and my cousin, Alex. I had been attending Mormon Church for about a month now and I was not prepared to take my cousin and sister to church with me. Alanna and Alex weren’t too excited either; I think they were expecting animal sacrifice and chanting church leaders dressed in black cloaks. As church began, Alanna and Alex stared at me questionably not knowing what to expect. I was honestly a little nervous myself for what was to come. Then, the testimonies began. Suddenly, I felt that I should go to the pulpit. I ignored the prompting. I wasn’t even a member and what would Alanna and Alex think? However, the feeling did not go away. Finally, I walked down the middle of the chapel and up to the pulpit---a never ending journey of curious stares and questioning murmurs. And then I began to speak: “I would like to bear my testimony that I know the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints is true. I feel it with all my soul. I feel peace at this church, but more importantly I feel hope. Hope for a better life. I am not a member, but I want to be. I can testify that Christ lives and miracles do happen. Finding this church was my kind of miracle.”
*****
A Bar Mitzvah in Jewish culture is symbolic of when a boy becomes a man. Today is that day for my brother, Brandon. As I sat in the pew waiting with my family, I did not know what to expect. My brother had never been one to follow through with anything or finish something he started. One day he would be playing the trumpet, trying the guitar, or attempting karate, and the next he would be focusing on baseball or trying to become America’s next biggest white rap artist. Could he finally finish something and go through with his Bar Mitzvah? Just as I was contemplating this, Brandon appeared at the pulpit. As he stepped forward, he looked mature and intelligent in his dark blue suit and styled hair. Soon, he began to read from the Torah. He read the Hebrew beautifully, fast-paced, and faithfully. Once he finished everyone commented on how he would become the family’s next great Rabbi. I had never been so proud of my brother in my life. After the service I ran to him and embraced him tightly. “You were amazing!” I proclaimed in ecstasy. He just smiled back.
*****
My family is quite dysfunctional; it is an awkward mix of Jews, Catholics, Native Americans, homosexuals, Buddhists, and Atheists. But somehow we all fit together. As I sat in a lonely chair waiting to get baptized into the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints with only my sister for support I realized that I was betraying my family. I was leaving the Jewish culture my Babba had fought so hard for and the Catholic heritage I had grown up with; I was going to be alone in my family. I started crying out of fear and guilt. I had to leave this room. I had to get away. I ran, tears prickling down my face; I could hear bewilderment and murmuring in the background, but I just kept running. Finally, I went into the chapel, kneeled, and started desperately praying. “Heavenly Father, should I get baptized? Should I betray everything my family has worked so hard for?” As a pleaded alone in the chapel I felt the spirit of my Babba, and my despair converted into comfort and peace. My Babba’s words came and wrapped themselves around my heart: “You might have a life full of hardship and sorrow, but it is merely a test. In the end it is all worth it. There is more to this life than what you see. Have hope.” That was the answer. There might have been no incense, crucifixes, or yamakas in that chapel, but there was hope. It was hard betraying my family, but I wanted happiness and eternal joy: that is what the gospel of Jesus Christ gave me. It was going to be hard, and there would be many trials ahead, but I knew that this church was true. And although there were no stained glass windows or menorah to illuminate the chapel that day, I saw the sun.
I love the imagery of the cathederal, and reading about your conversion to the church, thanks for sharing this!
ReplyDeleteI liked how you shared so many different religious experiences, and brought them together in the end. You really showed the value and importance of all of them in your life!
ReplyDeleteI agree with Shannon H, all the different religious experiences make the essay what it is. I've been mormon all my life so i don't really know what the other side is like, but you give a little peak into it through your writting.
ReplyDeleteYour story was so moving. I feel like i can relate to you and the different religions that make up your family. My own grandfather is Muslim and my step grandfather is Jewish. There both two religions that have had a difficult past with each other but both are important parts of my life. You write beautifully of how these strong religious foundations have led you to another church. I can't begin to express how touched i was by your work. There is a strong sense of truth and hope weaved into every aspect of your writing.
ReplyDelete