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My Mother was raised Catholic, my Father grew up in the Lutheran Church. When they married my Mom converted to the Lutheran church and I was baptised by the Pastor my Dad knew since he was a child. I have a few memories of going to church. I remember being too afraid to go up to the stage when the pastor asked all the children to come forward. I’ve been socially inept since birth. I also remember going to Sunday School once or twice. They asked us to drawn Thanksgiving dinner on a paper plate and I found it to be beneath my artistic vehicles at the time. I couldn’t believe that they didn’t have Lite-Brite or Spirograph.

After the age of six we never went back to church. I would find out much later it was because they were pestering my parents for ten percent of their income. At the time my Mom wasn’t working and my Dad had to take concessions. Needless to say, had they handed over that ten percent I may have gone without Popsicles and diapers.

I was in my late teens when my Dad explained the whole not going to church thing. He said he hated going as a child and didn’t want to make my brother and I go. He also said that he wasn’t sure he believed in the Bible. He had heard a theory that man created the Bible as a way to subside his fear of death. I could understand that argument completely, as I have been afraid of dying every day of my life since the age of 21.

My personal argument on religion was that there are so many how does anyone determine what one is actually right. Who am I to tell someone else that what or who they believe in is as real as Santa Clause. Not having any particular religion ingrained in me from an early age I was able to explore my options. I was thankful for this. Thankful that the choice was mine and mine alone. There was just one little issue. Growing up not believing in anything makes it a little bit hard to force yourself to believe in something as an adult.

So as of now, at the ripe ole’ age of 30, I don’t believe in an afterlife. At this point I believe that when we close our eyes for the last time that’s all there is, and we won’t have a functioning brain to tell us otherwise. We return to the Earth in one way or another and more babies are born.

After all the deaths I have experienced in the past year and a half you would think I would want to believe otherwise. You would think I would want to see my Dad again, ask my friend why she thought killing herself was the only answer, and maybe even play fetch again with the dog I had since the tenth grade. I just don’t believe it will happen. I do believe in the memories I have of the people that I’ve lost, but I don’t think we will be reunited once it’s my turn to close my eyes.

I have never seen a ghost, I don’t feel my Dad, Aunt, Grandma, or Grampa near me. When I think of the after life I think of the color black. So how do you go on, some may ask. That’s a tricky questions. I try to let everyone I care about know that I love them as much as I can. I attempt to make good memories with those I love and do the best to remember them with both my mind and heart. If I fall in love I can’t hide it. When I get an opportunity I try to take it. Mostly I just try to laugh as much as I can and make sure those around me get the joke.

In the end I’m sure it’s fear that will kill me. I’m afraid of too many things that take away from living. To know this is harder than living without the clue of it. When it’s over the best I can ask for is that those around me will say that I loved. Those that I loved will say I did it well. I have no idea what will become of me when my time is over, but I do know it won’t be a surprise if I never expected much of anything anyways.