I realize when we say the word “God” and talk about religion and spirituality, we’re wading into some tall weeds and brackish waters. If the subject turns your stomach, you can stay back at camp. But know this— I’m only sharing my experience, not trying to convince or cajole you. I don’t know jack— we can imprint a fly's eyelids with my collected wisdom with room to spare. If you come along, take what you like here and leave the rest.

We'll talk about my brother Brian’s murder in a sec, but before we do, I want to tell you about my childhood friend Hamburglar, and his father, Grimace.

Yes, I will protect the names of the guilty and innocent here. Let’s move on.

Hamburglar was a fellow troublemaker and a little punk. In the younger years when we got away with convincing our parents we didn’t know better, Hamburglar created a lot of chaos. From throwing rocks through windows, to rigging TV remote controls to turn neighbors’ sets off from outside, to setting a small patch of woods on fire, Hamburglar had a fearless zest for raising hell.

His father, Grimace, however, was majorly Religious. (Note the capital R.) Grimace wasn’t like my other friend’s parents. All the other parents were real people: they swore, they drank, some of them had wicked tempers. Grimace was… better than that, boring, and as I said— Religious.

Grimace talked about God. A lot. Hamburglar used to make me laugh because he’d roll his eyes behind his father’s back. He made fun of all the religious books his dad gave him for his birthday and the holidays. He’d describe his father and God in several compromising sexual positions. Profane stuff I thought would put him in big trouble with the man upstairs.

But I wasn’t sure. I was no God expert. I didn’t have much religion or God-talk in my household. My parents had my brother and me baptized but then we quickly went into Catholic retirement. No Confirmation, no Holy Communion. Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect $200, Go Directly to Hell.

My mother was Lutheran and went to church on holidays, but we were a secular bunch, we O’Neills. The closest my brother and I came to a church-going life was when we were twelve and ten years old. Mom drove us to the center of town and dropped us off out front of the local church. She told us we needed it, and to go in while she went home to clean the house.

We went straight to Richdale’s and got drunk on candy. She couldn’t make it stick if she wouldn't join us.

If I thought Grimace was strange when I was a child, I found him downright insufferable in my teens and twenties. As life and age broadened my horizons, I saw Grimace in a different light— he was still Religious, but I’d never noticed how judgmental he was. He knew the rules, according to his faith, and he knew when some sinner wasn’t living up to them. And he sure told you about it. The more I traveled and met diverse folks, the smaller Grimace seemed and sounded. Even hateful. He pressed his agenda on Brian and me, we heathens. He invited us to church, gave us religious books, and inserted his big opinions into the smallest conversations— we didn’t want what Grimace was selling, but believe me, he sold us hard.

 I may have been barreling towards an eternity of damnation, but if the heavenly afterlife meant I’d be bunking with Grimace, listening to him pontificate on the evils of [insert different creed, orientation and/or race here], I’d stick with the sinners, thank you very much…

Okay, as promised, let’s have a little murder chat. Brian meets a violent end, and the world doesn’t make sense anymore. We’ve got a killer on the run, the family flocks to my aunt’s house like the Corleone family going to the mattresses, and now my parents are planning a wake and funeral for their 27-year-old son.

Funeral Parlor Tip #1: when someone under 30 years old dies unexpectedly, you’d better order that extra keg of beer and appetizers because exactly ONE SHIT-TON of people will show up for this thing.

My parents and I stood just to the left of Brian’s open casket while hundreds of people piled in to pay their respects. The line went around the building outside. It felt like thousands.

Funeral Parlor Tip #2: when you’re the guest of honor in that ghastly parade, DRINK WATER. Between the crying, the sweating, the hugging, the talking, the talking and the talking, you’ll be bone dry. DRINK WATER, people, trust me.

It’s a marathon and you quickly discover that the big-ass line of people all the way out the door isn’t there for your comfort and grief. You’re there for theirs. Everyone wants a piece of you— not selfishly, but in the spirit of love. They need you to know how much the deceased meant to them, how much you mean to them. They need you to bear witness to the dearly departed’s last text to them, to tell you about their fondest memory, or the time ten years ago when he etc. etc. etc.

No one back then told me to drink water, and I was fading fast. Towards the end of viewing hours [Dear Funeral Homes— new term, please] the relentless line continued on. Past the puffy, red, tear-stained faces, I saw Religious Grimace.

Maybe it was the lack of liquids, but I observed Grimace in a way I'd never seen him before. He wasn’t puffy or red, and his face wasn’t tear-stained. Grimace seemed what I would later call buoyant. He wasn’t happy, but he wasn’t like the rest of us. He wasn’t… destroyed.

Grimace finally reached my parents and me. His eyes looked light. He said a few old chestnuts about death, faith, and the afterlife but his words didn’t matter. All I kept thinking about was the look in his eyes. I couldn’t understand the calm and serenity he seemed to possess.

Two years later, we sat in a courtroom, sweating out a murder verdict. Grimace was there, supportive through the whole thing— but his eyes hadn’t changed. He still had that vibrant light, that serene calm. I thought, it must be nice for old Grimace. He seems to think everything will be okay. Huh.

They put Brian’s murderer in jail and we tried to move on with our lives. Some of us did better than others. My mother didn’t make it. The heartbreak was too much for her to handle and she died within seven years.

I survived, but wasn’t doing too hot. For a long time I drifted and stumbled and I was getting worse by the year. The losses accumulated. And when you’re in a depressed, battered state, you take every death personally. Celebrity deaths and terrorist attacks got grouped in with my mom’s death, my wife’s parents’ deaths, a few close high school friends, co-workers, and suddenly you’re looking down the barrel of Holy shit. Is this all there is to life? Just waiting around for loved ones to drop off the face of the earth?

In my darkest days, this made me suicidal. I didn’t tell family and friends. I didn’t want to worry anyone. Dangerous not to tell someone. Those days put me in a scary jeopardy of doing something harmful that frightens me to even think about today.

My cousins Allison and Amy had given us a vase they’d used in a candle vigil for my brother on the anniversary of his death. Deb, my wife, had been putting memorial cards in it from funerals and services we’d attended. One day I passed it in the living room. I looked inside— it was like a morbid baseball card collection. Playing Third Base, In Loving Memory, R.I.P… too many cards and they all added up to— Son of a bitch. This is all there is to life.

We got word of another death back east, and to quote Popeye, “That's all I can stands, cuz I can't stands no more.” I didn’t have the inner strength to ask for help but I muttered something to my wife like, “I don’t know. I don’t know. I’m running out of room. Something has to change. My worldview is getting extremely… dark.”

We showed up for yet another funeral and Religious Grimace was there. Still buoyant, still serene. He’d lost all the same people I’d lost. He likely had the same Topps Memorial Card baseball death team in his own death jar, but he still had that pesky, vibrant light.

That funeral was the day I realized I’d been doing something wrong all my life. I needed a change or I wouldn't make it.

I began the hunt. I tried different worships, philosophies, religions and beliefs and found them to all have two things in common, both of which I’d been lacking:

1. Community. I got a taste of this during the wake, funeral, and murder trial, but when people’s lives had to carry on, I had nowhere to turn. People had a church, synagogue, temple, sangha, or bowling league. I was alone, trying to figure out life on my own (with a severely depressed brain)

2. A Higher Power. Again, trying to do it solo, I didn’t believe in anything outside my mind. That worked fine until it didn’t. Life kicked me in the nuts and left me with nowhere to turn when it all wasn’t working out the way I’d figured.

My hunt was successful. I found a spirituality. Somewhere to turn. I visited several houses of worship and found I had a lot of common beliefs with— 

You know what? It doesn’t matter. It’s my thing. And it’s likely different from your thing. I’m not writing this to piss you off and to separate. Even more importantly, I’m not writing this so we can say Hey, look at us! Same beliefs, same opinions—let’s make uniforms and write a manifesto. We have enough of those, and as I said, I’m a Class A dummy on the subject.

That’s why I love the term “God of my understanding.” And I’m not even talking about God vs. No God. Walk whatever path works for you. I’ll say this— I wanted what Religious Grimace had, but he and I don’t subscribe to the same worship. It doesn’t matter. There’s a million paths up the same mountain. Judaism and Christianity are paths. Islam is a path. Atheism is a path. Baseball as a church is a path. The movie theatre is a path. Nature is a path.

It didn’t matter what path I resonated with on the God-hunt, but it had to be something outside the four walls of my head. That much I knew. And I knew I dug love and compassion. Sign me up for those.

Thankfully, I found my way. Ironically, my world view is still dark. It’s still Holy shit. Life is just waiting around for loved ones to drop off the face of the earth. But on my better days, I can accept that. I’m aligned, centered straight with reality, be of service, and think maybe it’s all going to be okay.

I saw Religious Grimace a couple years ago, and I told him this story. I told him how I watched him from afar. How through all the chaos, down in the trenches, he was a source of strength for me. I thanked him for putting me on a path to seek something deeper. I expressed my gratitude for his helping start my hunt for greater understanding.

Grimace smiled and said, “I’m so happy to hear that. But you know, unless you believe in [insert creed, doctrine, orientation and/or scripture here] etc. etc. etc.”

Ah, same old Grimace. I am grateful, though. He may like to God-Hunt for different game than me, but we’re both seeking. I want that buoyancy and lightness he has. I need that serenity to get me through. Even if our paths never converge, we’re trudging up the same mountain.