July 4, 2019

Today marked my 54th year on this rock we call home. I woke up grateful to have made it, and yes, with a touch of joy in my heart. Then I went to work.

Let’s be clear, I am one of the blessed ones when it comes to working environment. I get to work with people I actually admire. The transition from home to work and back however, has a way of wearing one down – but that is a blog for another day.

As I moved about my day, I noticed an interesting trend: my willingness to own my number surprised some- that and my vulgarity, but what can I say, I was feeling extra real today.

Here’s the thing: only I know where I have been, what I have survived, and what I have accomplished. I am proud of my 54. Not because people pretend I don’t look my age, not because I think I’m extra in any way, but because not only am I still here, but I take joy in being.

Sure, I’ve got the aches, struggle with small lettering, and saddle bags are a bitch, but shit storms and all, I can honestly say I am having a good run.

And yes, I have been to the darkest place, making deals with my maker to take me out at 36 because I didn’t think I could take any more pain, but couldn’t be selfish enough to leave my son motherless before he hit the age of majority.  Needless to say, I put a stop order on those prayers, because yes, as trite as it has become to say, if you hang in there, you’ll learn some and earn some, and it will get better.

I think the secret to the joy I take in life now, is that you could not pay me enough to go back and live any of it over. Hard knocks, betrayals, dancing with poverty – not just being broke but broken, in essence doing life the hard way, has made me who I am, and I like her.

I have had some great high points as well. While I can enjoy wrapping myself in the comfort of those memories, I still would not want to revisit them live. The temptation to change something would be too great, and then who would I be?

So today, yes, I celebrate my inner Maiden and think fondly of my fading Mother.  I also embrace, with fierce pride, the rise of my Crone. If, as I believe, what comes before is to prepare you for what is to come, I know she will be a force to be reckoned with.

July 3, 2019

I dance in public; I don’t mean at clubs or on stage. No, I do not dance for the public, I just dance in public. At bus stops, on the metro, waiting in line, if the beat moves me, I move.

It first started as a political act; as a part of my perceptions about the City and how they dealt with Carribana.

My first jump-up experience was around age 11, when my Jamaican mom took me for the first time. Now, if you have been reading along, you know my father’s family, who raised me in my formative years, is a conservative, Bajun, Adventist one. Saturday mornings are not spent in the street win’in’ up!

Yeah, it was culture shock. Such rampant displays of sexuality, oh my! Is that? Yup, that is my Auntie wyn’in’ down and . . . OMG she is dusting the ground with her behind! At that tender age, just coming into awareness of sex and sexuality, it was a whole lot. It was also beautiful, affirming and familial.

At the time, the City had a love hate thing with the event. A few assholes chose to break community codes and bring violence into family settings – real people don’t shit where they eat- and as usual, the community as a whole took the blame. Some would have loved to kill the event all together, but the millions brought in when fam came to visit from New York, Boston, Hartford, and Toronto was too good to give up. So instead they worked to suck the joy out of the event and send the best of it to Toronto.

That is not to say some in the community don’t bear some responsibility – those who seek the status of ownership, rather than recognizing the responsibility of stewardship- but this entry is about why I dance in public.

Eventually I would throw myself into the marvelous frenzy of jump-up week-end, ending with a night under the stars at the Belvidere Motel. It was a time to celebrate my culture, my community and yes, my God given sensuality.

Then the City started to herd us into uncomfortable situation. We could have our parade, but no community gathering at its end.  We could have our parade, but it would end in Old Montreal, where the police would quickly hassle us off the street. We could have our parade, but the after party would be on their controlled island, where I can pay for the pleasure of getting in, pay higher rates for everything so the City could get their kick back (fees from community vendors), get harassed by security and then fight my way onto public transit to get out. As a result, I no longer jump-up or go to Jamaica Day in the Park.

This is also what started my public dancing. I figured that if the City made millions from our shaking our ass at jump-up, then I should be able to dance almost anywhere/anytime – and did so. It was my mini daily protest, a way of reminding the powers that be that I exist outside of the traditional July first weekend and I am not a tourist. It was my intent to be conspicuous.  That was long ago, but it did help me break the habit for caring what others thought of me.

Now, it is just about energy and the music. I tend to sport my iPod mini when in transit. It helps me keep the daily transit bullshit at bay. I can be a moody person, but I also feel very accountable for my moods. As a result I use music to help me keep balance. If I am dragging as when I wake up, I load up my R&B and Reggae. If I am feeling spastic and scattered, I load up my folk, jazz and soft classic rock. When I have had enough and just need to tune out, I blast my Hip Hop & Zeppelin and the likes. I don’t just have this stuff playing at my ears, I actually connect to it and take great joy from it.  In fact, the days where I feel like I am not connecting, I turn it off and connect to the natural world around me.

As a result, yes, I dance in public & have even been known to sing along too. Being in theatre has only made it worst. As far as I am concern, if the music you listen to does not ever move you to do this as well, you’re doing music wrong.

I have said it before, and today of all days, I say it again: I am unabashedly proud to be Canadian; even though that means also owning some of the messed up stuff that we do and have done. While I have little connection to much of the rest of the county outside of Quebec and Ottawa, I only need to travel outside of Canada to know just how Canadian I am.

At home, I am a mishmash of identities, shifting constantly to navigate the constructs I am bound to. At work I am one person, at play another, in a store, on the metro, on the phone, there seems to be different and constantly adapting mes . On one side of town I’m on high alert, keeping my back to the wall, in another, I walk with my head in the clouds.

Here, once I step out of my home, life becomes highly political and complex. When I step out of my county, life gets simple. In a Canadian setting, I am mostly a Montrealer, and even as such, am often affixed an asterisk. When I declare myself Canadian abroad, most of the time, I don’t even get the follow up questions. My identity is simply accepted. It’s funny how the world perceives us as so much more inclusive than we really are- then again, we perceive ourselves that way as well.

If you are wondering why I do not mention being Quebecois, it is because that is an identity not afforded to me; regardless of the fact that I was born, raised, and educated here and speak both languages fluently. Where I once used to fight to claim that identity, over time I have come to see that it is an exclusive club I do not want to belong to – Bill 9 and 21 anyone? Enough said.  Why stay you might ask? We have had two votes that say I live in Canada, and here I will stay as long as Canada it is.

Yes, I am critical of my home and native land, but you can’t make anything better if you’re happy with good enough. If I am to own the bad with the good, then sound mental health requires that I be an agent for change when it comes to the bad.

That does not mean that I don’t also count my blessings. Given my lot in life and the times we live in, there are three things I am very grateful for: I was born Black, a woman and Canadian.

Though my mom missed the mark by three days with me, my sister got it right, and delivered my nephew on Canada Day three years ago today. As we celebrate the gift this child has been to our family, I can’t help but also reflect on the courage and spirit of adventure that brought my fore-parents to this country, the fortitude it took to accomplish all that they have, and the forgiving spirit it takes for them to have done and faced it all with grace and dignity. I look around me, and see in all of us now, the spirit of dreams fulfilled and those yet to come.

After Thoughts:

Now that the month is over, I had the opportunity to go back and review (edit) my previous entries.  I plan to revisit some of it with new entries.

For example, today a surprising incite hit me. When we look at most of our social ails, what underlines most them is fear. So I started thinking about this in terms of racism and privilege. Then it hit me; what these people fear is meritocracy. They have a deep seated fear that they can’t compete on a level playing field. Bigotry, prejudice and racism are just the tools they use to mask the fear.

For The Love of Black

I am most critical in my assessments of that which I love. Why waste the energy if not in the desire to make something better. As we come to the end of Black History Month, and my at times critical gaze on my community, I thought it fitting to end with a love letter.

I have said it before and I will say it again:  I love what makes me; the bequeathals of the Arawak, Caribs, Maroons and Spaniards, the vestiges of the African and Jew, and even the hint of Scott and Irish – though we won’t talk about how they got into the mix. With the history we have, no one can make me bow my head.

What marked us for the boats was not our weakness, but our strength. The strongest of steal is forged by the hottest of fires; we were tempered in the fires of hell.  Taken to lands we did not know existed and given scraps for sustenance, we toiled their soil, played their game, but retained our soul.

Yes, we were slaves. Long before that, we were nation builders. While they have put their names to our thoughts, creations, and labour, we know the truth. They fear us because they worry we will take it back. Little do they know, if they but get out of our way, we will make it better – again.

As we continue in our struggle, we must affirm that whiteness is not our enemy. It is a construct of privilege, and it is privilege that we must defeat. We were all created equal, and equally shall we be judged. This is not a fire to be met with fire. If we trade our souls to defeat the devil, we too shall be lost.

No, the best way to cripple the devil is to smile serenely while rejecting its offering, to dance and sing out hosanna when it would cripple with whispered words of despair, and to take into our hearts all those it would have us hate. Hate is a cancer; forgiveness and love its only cure. Forgiveness is not acceptance, and love, of self-included,  is preserver.

Scientists have left us no doubt; Black women carry proof in their blood that we are the originators,  and that all are the sons and daughters of EVE. Now nature speaks and tells us we must come together to live as one family or we will surly perish as one.

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As my last words for the month, I want to lean on those of another. I attended a workshop once, and was asked, “When it comes to happiness, in comparison to others, on a scale of 1-10, where would you place yourself?” At the time I put myself at a comfortable and even 5.

I came across the notes from that workshop a few years later, and thought about it again. I was surprised to realise that, when not in one of my dark places, I would place myself at a 9.  I began to wonder why that was, given some of the stuff I go through, get myself involved in, and choose to fight.

I realised it was how I defined happiness and in particular how I defined success. My definition does not allow for others to limit me, so my trials and tribulations only lend to my sense of success.  Here are the words I adopted long ago, that have served as my guide and my measure:

What is Success?

To laugh often and much;

to win the respect of intelligent people

and the affection of children;

to earn the appreciation of honest critics

and endure the betrayal of false friends;

to appreciate beauty; to find the best in others;

to leave the world a bit better,

whether by a healthy child,

a garden patch

or a redeemed social condition;

to know even one life has breathed easier

because you have lived.

This is to have succeeded.

This poem is most often attributed to Emerson. In fact, it is believed that the original poem was written by Bessie Stanley, though the words have been altered by time.  http://www.chebucto.ns.ca/Philosophy/Sui-Generis/Emerson/success.htm

My Soundtrack

As a part of working on this blog, I have been using different strategies to get myself thinking and reflecting. One of the tools I have been using is my IPod on the way to work and back.  Most people’s playlist says a lot about them. Mine does too; it just seems to belong to four different people. What it also reflects is the different kinds of crowds I have run with.

Normally, I pick my playlist according to my mood. I have folders that separate accordingly (Rock, R&B, Reggae, Jazz, and a couple of lists that could be titled Shake dat ass 1,2 &3). This month, I chose to play my complete list in alphabetical order – I have enough music that I can go at least a week without repeating a song. The only music I skipped routinely was my Christmas stuff.

The thing about music is that for me, with few exceptions, it flashes me back to the time when I first fell in love with the tune.  As I explained earlier, my life has been such that I have attended to different parts of my identity at different times. As such, a person could be forgiven for thinking my playlist was made up by different people.

No credible DJ would ever put together such a playlist. For this month however, it has been great. Each weird mix acted as a jolt, and brought my attention to what I was listening to, allowing me to focus into a time period in my life.

Rather than tell you anymore, here was today’s playlist.

On the way to work:

Melissa Etheredge – No Souvenirs

Oliver Jones and Skip Bey – Old Folks

Erykah Badu – On and On

Oscar Peterson –The Street Where You Live

Drake – One Dance

Audrey Hall – One Dance

Oliver Jones – Our Love is Here to Stay

Classified – Payday

Arrested Development – People Everyday

Etana – People Talk

Omarion – Post to Be

Nelly Furtado –Powerless (Say what you want)

Oscar Peterson –Prelude to a Kiss

India Arie – Private Party

Ashanti –Rain on Me

Empire Cast –Ready to Go

Eddie Murphy (with Snoop Lion)– Red Light

Bruce Cockburn – Ribbon of Darkness (I am a diehard Gordon Lightfoot fan)

The Doors – Riders on the Storm ( had to fast forward – too dark of morning)

Genesis – Ripples

Andra Day –Rise Up

Ibeyi – River

Lorde- Royals

Rihanna-Rude Boy

Macklemore&Ryan Lewis – Same Love

Cannonball Adderly &Nancy Wilson – Save Your Love for Me

Michelle Wiliams – Say Yes

On the way home:

Simon and Garfunkel – Scarborough Fair

Little mix – See Me Now

Kreesha Turner – Sexy Gal

Jill Scott – Shame

Ne-Yo with Jamie Foxx – She Got Her Own

Tarrus Riley – She’s Royal

Soweto Gospel Choir – Shosholoza (S.A. National anthem after apartheid)

Danity Kane – Showstopper

Sanchez – Sip my Chalice

Pink – So What

Peter Gabriel – Solsbury Hill

Fun.-Some Nights

Oliver Jones and Skip Bey – Somewhere Over the Rainbow

Horace Silver – Song for my Father

KMC – Soul on Fire

Jennifer Hudson Spotlight

Cassandra Wilson – Strange Fruit

Stix – Suite Madame Blue

Eva Cassady – Summertime

Karl Wolf – Summertime

John Denver – Sunshine on my Shoulders

Intersectional Filters

By now, pretty much every one knows who Billy Porter is, but in case you missed the memo in fabulousness here he is: (I hesitate to use this pronoun, but as I could find no reference as to what Porter prefers, I am using what I have found in reference to him)

When I saw this image I had so many thought run through my head that I thought it was a great example of the intersectionality that lives in my head.

First thought: Gorgeous! But?

The “but” was what made me break down my thoughts.

First level aesthetics: Cut? Fabulous. Flow? Amazing.  Pose? Dramatic, but that is expected? Blurring of gender? LOVE it. Overall look: I might have gone with a smaller bow tie with a ruby/emerald stud in the center, but I like the outfit.

Next my Black voice kicks in. I am so glad to see such a strong voice stepping forward. Porter is unapologetic about who he is. I am sure that is the result of some hard work on his part.

Admit it or not, my community can be horrifically homophobic, and it disheartens me. I am particularly disgusted because our homophobia is a legacy of slavery and the church’s role in colonization. In other words, we did not start hating on our sons and daughters until they taught us to.

A colleague recently hipped me to the life expectancy of a transgendered person -25! WTF!!! I could not believe that a) I did not know that and b) we are not doing more about it.

The visibility and celebration of people like Porter is vitally important in giving LGBTQ youth hope that it really can get better. An image like this also forces my community to face themselves. This is not, “those people dem” this is one of “us”.

As a political statement, I could not ask for any better.

So now comes the woman. It took me a while to figure it out. I spent some time sliding the picture around and seeing it in different blocking, and I realised just how clever the tailoring is. Then it hit me, I had to double check with my finger on the image to be sure. The “but”? It’s the friggen beard!

I realise my bias. I am comfortable with a male adopting/transitioning to/experimenting with a female identity. I am comfortable with the idea of people blurring gender, as I understand intellectually that gender is a construct. Yet in this image, what I see is a man in a dress, and for some reason that throws me. For some reason it feels “unfair” and I know it is the woman in me feeling this.

As open as I believe myself to be, I clearly still have boxes I like people to fit neatly into. I get girl, I get boy, and though gender has nothing to do with sexuality, I also get fluidity in that area. Yet clearly, I feel the need for folks to be one gender or the other – real fluidity in this area brought my bias forward.

I bow down to Porter, who demonstrated the true art of fashion – challenging the expected. I won’t pretend I don’t still want to hold him down, shave him, add a little eyeliner to those gorgeous eyes and a little bronze to those cheek bones. I do however promise to work on trying to break out of this indoctrination.

I post this entry as confirmation of intent, and ask those who know me to check me anytime I display this bias in the future.

Lessons in Daring

It’s Monday, so it is nephew night once again. My evening starts when he comes in the door and bellows for me. When I come to him, he will let me grab him up and hug and kiss him till he giggles.

He is only 31 months old, and I admire him already. The way I see it, though I have no clear recollections, I think this age is the hardest in life.

Imagine you’re going about your business, engaged in something that is the upmost important to you. Then someone comes along, and just by virtue of their size, completely thwarts your will. Worst yet, you know what you want to express, but don’t have the words to make yourself clear. Talk about frustrating!

While those of us entrusted with their care know that we make the choices we do to keep them safe, all they know is that we are the party poopers who won’t let them explore the world of wonder under the kitchen sink. The world is an exciting but scary place at 2. Almost everything is bigger than you are, and the smallest of things can be life threatening.

The upside of two is that you can be super daring, because you have no concept of risk. While the scrapes and falls scare the pants off those around you, for the most part, any wrong can be righted with a nap.

The amount of trust a two year old can show you is humbling.  My nephew thinks I am super woman – if its broke I can fix it, if it hurts I can heal it, if it is scary, I can protect him. Yesterday, he was having a bad day and his mother took him aside to discipline him. I could hear him yelling for me as she worked on setting him strait. While I would never overstep his mother’s rule, it still felt good knowing he called for me when distressed. My sister tells me he does it at home as well.

As I think about all of this, two things come to mind:

1. Now that I am charting the course into the next phase of my life, I need to get in touch with my inner two year old.
2. I hope there is a special place in hell reserved for those who violate the trust of a child.

Illusions

Not long after I met my husband, he was caressing my shoulder and exclaimed, “you have the softest skin of anyone I have ever met”. Then he moved in with me, and discovered that I keep a bottle of skin cream in every room of the house. A shared shower taught him just how much work goes into trying to keep acquired moisture.– if it is winter, a layer of baby oil, followed by a layer of cream, followed by another layer once the first is absorbed; not to mention the Vaseline for the feet. What can I say, ashy isn’t cute.

Now, my illusion of soft skin is not designed to fool anyone, including myself. I put the effort in for two reasons a) indoctrination; from childhood I was made to understand that ashy was a sign of poor hygiene and b) I prefer to not walk around looking like an ape; itching myself due to dry skin.

There was a time however that I did maintain damaging illusions; damaging in that they either taxed me, or blinded me from my own truths. Eventually I had to tackle them if I was to find any kind of inner peace.

First came the illusion of happiness. I remember once in my youth being asked what I wanted to be. I flippantly replied, “Happy”. I eventually came to understand that happiness was not a state of being that could be sustained continually. Happiness is the fleeting result of a job well done, a challenge overcame , a pleasant surprise or such. The fading of this happiness is what motives me to get out there and do some more. When I stopped trying to project happiness all the time, I was better able to appreciate it when I feel it, and not fear its absence when I don’t.

Next I tackled the illusion of perfection. We are trained to believe that getting it right is of paramount importance. Yet getting it wrong can be so much more edifying. The other problem with needing to project permanent perfection, is that I started to shy away from things if there was a chance they could go wrong. Letting go of perfection allowed me to a) lighten up on myself and others b) perceive beauty and value in imperfection.

Next came the illusion of strength. Of all the illusions, this one is the biggest trap, particularly for people of BIPOC. When you walk around projecting strength all the time, people feel free to dump on you because you can take it. Screw the stiff upper lip; just because I am no wilting flower does not mean I want to carry the weight of the world.

This led me to explore the illusion of image. There was a time that I suppressed who I was in an effort to project who others wanted me to be. As a part of my teen rebellion I thought I had rid myself of that. Then a financial crisis in my twenties, showed me that I had not. While I was no longer trying to be someone I was not, I was putting a lot of effort in projecting a winning image. Now I play with image and love to watch people try to figure me out and get confused when I don’t fit neatly into a box.

My decision to stop the illusion of image, led me to discover the illusion of false friends. To this day I have a problem with things like “networking” because anything that smacks as disingenuous turns my stomach. As much as I understand peoples’ investment is so called social niceties, I can’t help but feel a combination of pity and annoyance whenever I know someone is fronting – and I usually know. I guess that is only fair, given that people who front, tend to get annoyed with people who like to keep it 100%.

While life stripped of all illusion can be dull, I find life simpler without them. When I want to take a trip to fantasy land, I read a book, watch tv, see a play. I don’t allow anyone into my inner circle if they feel the need to play the illusion game, because trust is big with me, and how can I trust you if you are lying to yourself?

In the end, I now enjoy the pleasure of my own company. I can’t say that was true when I too played the illusion game – it is hard to hide from yourself when you are alone. As a result, I continue to be watchful of building or accepting illusions in life. Thankfully I have people who love me and support me in my efforts to keep it real.

Faith Reborn

I don’t think any examination of my life, particularly as a person of colour, would be a complete without looking at religion/faith. So as the sun sets on what was a very lovely Sabbath, I thought today is a good day.

By matriarchal lineage, I was born a Jew. I was christened an Anglican (Union United) because Reverent Este did not check for marriage certificates.  I was raised a Christian, an Adventist to be exact, and baptized into the faith at a young 13 – my uncle was doing it and it made my Grandpa happy so (shrug).

My grandfather, who guided us in faith at home, did not preach blind faith. He believed that God gave us a thinking mind for a reason. He encouraged rational questioning and thought that science and religion need not discount one another.  The space between the explainable and the not, is where faith lies. Moreover, he taught that the bible was a parable – while yes it was a guide book to God and life, as it was filtered through the minds of men and politics, it had to be interpreted critically.

I left the church in my early teens.  Here is the thing I noticed about church: When you’re a kid, it’s all good and Jesus loves you. As soon as you’re old enough to bring in some money, God becomes a judgmental meanie, and you’re going to hell.

I also began to see way too much hypocrisy in the church and I did not want to be one of those. Keeping the Sabbath is hard when you figure out the days of the week are an invention of man. I REALLY like bacon.  My heaven will include LGBTQ people. I value honesty over politeness. When sermons started to weigh me down rather than uplift me I was out of there.

Now, I think I have mentioned, I was on the path to nowhere for a while. I would wander away from any perception of faith for a good 10 years. Sure I prayed in dark times – I was still a believer- but I did not have any real sense of connection.

The rise of the Nation of Islam in Montreal started me thinking about religion again, and while I found them a curiosity, it never went further than that, because, did I mention, I LOVE bacon.

Instead, what I did explore was Neo-Paganism. This started my spiritual dilettante phase.  It all started with a book: When God was a Woman by Merlin Stone.  I was introduced to the Sumerians, and other faiths that predate Christianity.

Given discoveries I had made by this time about Christianity and colonization, I was primed for other world views. The book was more about how women have been sidelined than about religion itself, but it did get me questioning.

Then I got into the fun side of new age; I learnt to read tarot, do astrological charts, cast I Ching and interpret numbers. Learning about these things introduced me to paganism and Wicca. The basicness of these faiths appealed to me – “in that it harm none,do as you will”. They became even more appealing when I realised just how much modern day religions can trace their origins to paganism.

While this did lead to a better connection to the natural world, and a broadening of my understanding of God, I never felt called to dance naked beneath the moon. Around this time, I began working in a multicultural setting, and had the opportunity to learn more about faiths common outside the western world; Buddhism, Islam, Baha’i etc. The more I learnt the more I came to understand that it was all the same thing. Sure there are some differences – I think that is more about religion than God. In the end however, all religions seem to share the same central message: don’t be a douche.

Then one Christmas season, I was at a bar when Michele Sweeney came in and sang Silent Night. When she was done I was in tears. I felt the presence that night and welcomed it back into my life. I had come full circle. I left the church, but God never left me.

Since then, I have come to realise that I have always lived my life by the foundation that my Grandfather set for me; I just needed to wander my own desert until I could hear the voice for myself.

I still have little use for organised religion; but I do understand the need for it in terms of laying a foundation one can grow on. For me, church represents a passive type of faith that I find distancing.

My God is no longer the sky God of my youth, but rather an active presence in my life. I perceive my relationship to God to be one of active partnership and don’t feel the need for a go between. For me, God is the source from which we come, a part of which resides in us as we walk this plane and is the source we return to when it is all over.  My God does not sit on high and judge pass/fail, but rather like any parent, sees that I am encouraged to learn and grow, and holds me accountable for my actions by making me face the karma I create.

I do my best to observe the Sabbath now, though not in the restrictive way as dictated by the dogma of my childhood. It is about a pause for renewal and reflection, a time to quiet the bustle of daily life and allow spirit the space to flow.

My faith is no longer about fear of the big guy getting me, but rather a celebration that I am never alone. Faith reminds me that no matter what I am worried about, it is all fleeting.  Faith makes it so I don’t feel like I have to have all the answers, but when needed; all I have to do is ask the questions.

While I get that religion has alienated many, and some just simply do not believe,  I could not imagine my life without my faith as a guiding influence. While horrendous things have been and continue to be done by the religious in the name of God, I am not about the throw out the baby with the bathwater.

Best of all, when I freed myself of the dogma of religion, I was able to rationalise things that confounded me as a child. So for example, I have no problem with creation and evolution both being right – I have no problem thinking of God as amoebic or that God set off the big bang.

There is so much I don’t know for sure, and I am ok with that too.  Fact is, if I am wrong, I still will have lived a good life, served a purpose, and done more good than harm in my time.

As for Christianity, I still believe in Jesus. I also believe in Mohammad, Buddha, and all the rest. It makes sense to me that the message was sent through many voices and just like a game of broken telephone, the message can get a little garbled along the way.

I think if Grandpa was still here, he would be cool with that.