Cleanliness is next to Godliness

I think the average American has a misperception of the English as quaint, simple people who attend Anglican services in Gothic cathedrals and invite the vicar round for tea. The six English boys I went out with over the years, including the one I married, are all godless heathens. Our English ancestors were Puritans who fled these people who mocked their pious beliefs, and my experience with the Brits leads me to believe all the religious ones caught the boats out.

My darling Mr. Sweetypants was not only raised without religion, he's a brainy scientist who reads Einstein and Richard Dawkins for fun and is a card-carrying member of the Church of the Flying Spaghetti monster -- even has the noodly-appendaged one badged on his car.

Religion or lack thereof was never a concern for the two of us as we decided to team up. I did grow up in the United Methodist church, but aside from making crafts and marching around, belting out "Onward Christian Soldiers" at vacation bible school, I never got much out of it or the whole memorizing-scriptures-and-creeds-and- dogma thing. I lost what little religion I had, ironically, at my Church of Christ-founded liberal arts college, whose mascot was the Fightin' Christian.

I don't disclaim spirituality. Organized religion doesn't do much for me, but I do hedge my bets and would never say I don't believe something else might be out there. I attended Unity church during my early 30s spiritual crisis, even had a Unity wedding. It's a really nice approach to living: It's all Golden Rule-as-interpreted-by-many-cultures-based.

In my adult world in the creative underclass, I haven't run across many church-goers. On the rare occasion I have, I've stopped myself from drawing back and asking, "Really?"

My bi-weekly house cleaner's business card reads "Son-Shine Cleaning." She has a "Got Jesus?" plate on her car. We give bags of clothes to her to take to her church's outreach center for the underprivileged. (Oh, and big disclaimer lest this seems classist: She owns her own business and lives in a bigger house than we do.)

I left her a note this morning to please clean under the bed. She did a great job, and neatly stacked the things she pulled out from under it on the side. Atop the various notebooks and cat toys was Steve's paperback copy of "Atheist Universe."

While I have no problem with or any desire to read the book, I have a problem with offending my cleaning lady. I don't believe in hell, but I really hate that she might think I'm going there, instead of Steve the heathen who bought and read it. I also don't want her to pray on our godlessness and decide she needs to quit. Her rates are really great for this area, and I've been using her for so long that I've completely forgotten how to be motivated to mop.

If she leaves, there will be hell to pay.

What I said to Steve at our wedding (6/3/06)

I was just a small-town girl, living in a lonely world. I took the midnight train from Shallotte to Elon College to London, then down some dark and questionable roads in Raleigh on this journey before I got here, where I am supposed to be.

In this moment, I stand before you all with the kindest, warmest, most wonderful man I’ve ever met. It staggers me that I found him, and I want to thank him for finding me. It took us 35 years, and I once wished we could have met when we were younger, but I know that we were two completely different people then, and it’s the different roads we traveled, and the bumps and detours we encountered that made us the great team we are today.

I want you all to know that marrying Steve Plowman is the best decision I’ve ever made. This man was the first person ever to make me laugh so hard I gagged. We have the greatest conversations on everything from personal struggles though politics through the forensics of language through the brilliance of Monty Python. We sing silly songs and riff off each other effortlessly. We have a fluid, mutually respectful life together that unfolds into something better every day.

I lived with a Himalayan cat named Ed for 10 and a half years. Most of you – well, all of you – who met him know that he wasn’t terribly friendly to anybody but me. At first, he regarded Steve with great disdain and was extremely put off at not being the center of my attention. But eventually, Ed stopped hissing at Steve and started playing a swat-and-duck game with him, which, for Ed, was genuinely affectionate social interaction.

Steve was with me the moment Ed died. And he cried with me and drove us to Oberlin Road Animal Hospital for the last time. I was a wreck for days, and Steve helped me through my tears and loss. My sister Jill said, “Maybe Ed stayed around to make sure Steve would take care of you, and when he knew it was okay, he left.”

So to Ed, Jill, my family and friends, I want to let you know that because of Steve, I am more okay than I’ve ever been. I love this man, I love his company, and I love that he loves the things I don’t love about myself. We are going to be really great together.

I want to promise Steve, in your presence, that he’s all that matters, that I love every day we spend together, that I would give my left kidney for him, that I’ve never been so happy or complete, and that my heart belongs wholly to Steve Plowman.