My father spent nearly a month agonizing over whether he should open a can of tomato soup before deciding not to; meanwhile, Jeannie has moved ahead full bore on her spiritual path, and is scheduled to be baptized as a member of the Orthodox Church next week. Neither of these decisions surprises me.
Anybody who knows Gene would never describe him as reckless; precise, careful, reserved—those are the qualities that comprise my dad’s fundamental character—yet he has been known to throw his legendary caution to the wind when it comes to major life decisions like marriage or relocating. Confronted with a truly important matter, he has more than once leaped without looking, and consequences be damned. A can of tomato soup, on the other hand, apparently warrants much more careful thought.
The soup in question was my idea: a creamy tomato basil bisque which I brought over hoping to give him a little variety from the split pea soup he’s been eating almost every day. I did my best to promote the virtues of the bisque—not too spicy, no strong garlic flavor—and then left it up to him for a while. But soon, in my weekly phone calls, I began asking if he’d tried the soup yet.
“No, not yet,” was his invariable response. So I let it go for another week. The next time I asked, I thought there was hope. “Well, I took it out and thought about it, but then decided against it,” he said.
Exasperation began creeping into my tone. “It’s just a can of soup, dad. It’s not like getting married or buying a house.” He chuckled.
Then, over at their place last week, I asked one more time about the soup. As I could have predicted, he hadn’t tried it. Jeannie piped up, saying that she too had mentioned it to him several times but he didn’t appear interested. “OK, that’s fine, I’ll just take it back,” I said. Gene, with seeming relief, handed me the can of soup. One less thing to worry about for both of us.
As for Jeannie’s conversion experience, I knew it was coming. Her monologues now are filled with references to divine intervention (which apparently extends to simple mistakes in legal documents and the address of another church member but to her all provides fresh meaning in an otherwise dull life.)
She’s undeniably happy, and I won’t begrudge that. Befuddled and trivial as she is, anything that gives her a sense of purpose is fine, so long as she doesn’t try to foist her beliefs on others. That’s a big “if” given that she has a lifelong tendency to share her feelings about everything. I’ll do my best to smile and bite my tongue rather than debating her.
After all, beliefs are just that—beliefs. They can’t be proven or disproven, and no matter how illogical or strange they might seem to others they make perfect sense to their owners. I accept that believers see the world as they do, and leave them alone; what annoys me is that so many of them seem unwilling to return the favor.
