The story of my religious journey dates back to my infant baptism as a Catholic at the Cathedral in the French Quarter in New Orleans where we lived in the Pontalba Apartments catty corner to the Cathedral.

My religious memories begin when at five with a Catholic father and a Methodist mother I began First Grade in St. Louis, Missouri in a Catholic school.

When Sister Rose asked us if our parents took us to church on Sundays, I volunteered that my father did, but my mother just stayed in bed.

Shortly afterward, when I came home and told my mother that she wasn’t going to heaven because she wasn’t Catholic, my mother informed me firmly that my dad and I were going to get into heaven on her Methodist prayers. This was my first hint that nobody has a monopoly on God.

As my mother became the ‘do everything’ room mother for our class, she and Sister Rose became great friends. When some of the boys were fighting, in class, Sister Rose said, “I know all your parents and I know they don’t act like this!”  Of course, I popped up and announced, “Mine do. I saw my mother throw her shoe at my father!”

Of course, Sister Rose couldn’t resist telling mom what I had said. Mom’s response was, “That’s true. But it was a house-slipper and I imagine a lot softer than the chalk board erasers she tells me you throw at the boys when they misbehave!”

I think they called it a “draw.”

Mother never bought into Catholicism, but she was supportive in every way, except one. Back when Catholics were not supposed to eat meat on Fridays, my mother served us bacon for breakfast every Friday morning.

When my dad said anything, she would respond emphatically, “It’s a worse sin to waste food.”

I don’t know about my dad, but I embraced her logic.