Last night’s dinner conversation:

“I wonder if Mike and Vickie will want to go to church with me on Friday when they’re here,” I said (as I reviewed all the services at St. Mary’s for Holy Week).

“But, Sweetie, you go to church on Sunday, not Friday,” Eric replied.

“Yes, I know that, but it’s Good Friday.”

“Oh. Why do they call it Good Friday anyway? Wasn’t it a rather bad day for Jesus?”

“Because Good Friday begins the Passion narrative, the story of our faith.”

“Huh?”

On Palm Sunday a few days ago, I was ecstatic that the whole family accompanied me to Mass until David and Katherine used their palms as swords during the long Gospel reading, and Eric asked me after Communion if the Body of Christ was high carb.

“It’s bread. My guess would be yes,” I answered him.

“Well how is a guy supposed to get holy and lose weight at the same time?”

How did a religion major who aspired to be a nun–a pious girl who chased priests and seminarians in college because they were so much more spiritually evolved than the secular boys across the street at Notre Dame–wind up with a guy whose faith vocabulary includes five words: Christmas, Easter, Jesus, God, and Mary?

I ask myself that question on a fairly regular basis.

This I know: Eric is one of the most spiritual (in the real sense of the word) men I have ever met. He is unbelievably faithful, devoted, forgiving, kind, loving, wise, patient, and generous. His soul is pure. Much purer than mine. But, after years of therapy and introspection, I have arrived at this sometimes awkward and painful conclusion: we are not religiously aligned. If I were vanilla ice cream, he would be something like bubble-gum-mango-pineapple.

I think I’m safe in saying that he will never know the difference between the Our Father and the Hail Mary, and that’s after a year of RCIA (Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults) and more than a decade of living with a religion writer.

At church a few weeks ago, I was enjoying a meditative moment, closing my eyes as I sang the words, “Yahweh, I Know You are Near” (from “You Are Near” by Dan Schutte, S. J.), when Eric taps me on the shoulder and says “When we get back to the car, can you fill me in on who this Yahweh dude is?”

That question/and the Host carb inquiry plus the Good Friday blank stare–are why I seek spiritual friendships…relationships that give me lots of opportunities to speak my native tongue. Such bonds are crucial to keep my spirit alive, and my recovery in progress.

“Human friendship is…a nest of love and gentleness because of the unity it brings about between many souls,” wrote Augustine of Hippo.

Spiritual companionship nourished the souls of many great mystics and saints. In fact, there are so many examples throughout Christian history of deep, platonic friendships between men and women that I’ve long wanted to write a book called “When Fr. Harry Met Sr. Sally.”

Like Francis and Clare of Assisi, Therese of Lisieux and Maurice Belliere, Teresa of Avila and John of the Cross, Hildegaard of Bingen and Bernard of Clairvaux, and Dorothy Day and Peter Maurin.

But for a person such as myself with boundary issues (no I don’t mind watching your kids every Thursday afternoon and feeding them dinner even though we’ve eaten spaghetti five nights in a row because we have less time than you), these relationships can be tricky.

Given the complications that arise in my relationships with women friends, my therapist advised against venturing into the land of hormonal risk…where your body (we are beasts after all) could mistake the male across the table from you for your spouse and want to mate with it (meaning an actual or an emotional affair).

So here’s my rule as of Lent last year: I have coffee and lunch and chat about all things Catholic–my Marian devotion, books by Thomas Merton and Henri Nouwen, the history of the Stations of the Cross, Jesus’ Incarnation and what that means to me, Pope Benedict XVI and his Muslim war, and the Gospel of Judas–with my religious women friends (Sandy, Beatriz, Michelle, Ann, Mom, Lisa) and with devout balding men over the age of 65: Ben (85), Fr. Joe (76), Mike (66), Deacon Moore (65), and Fr. Dave (65). That way there’s no chance of my brain getting mixed up and doing something stupid or dangerous, or wasting tons of time trying to figure out if it’s doing something stupid or dangerous. I keep in mind that Peter Abelard and Heloise were only able to share one spiritual mind after poor Peter was castrated.

I hope by the time I reach 65 I’ve mastered the whole boundaries thing–because I will have to bring a thermos to the graveyard to have coffee with all my male friends. Of course, by then I might be on so much Zoloft (and so neutered) it won’t matter anyway.