Faith and Fear - a daughter's view

I am reading Mary Gordon's Circling My Mother, a memoir set within a historical time frame that closely intersects the time period of my mother's life and mine.  Reading this book gives rise to the question of who my mother was and is.  Like her mother, mine, too, is afflicted with dementia.

As I read Gordon's probing evaluation of her relationship with her mother, it strikes me that much of my mother's actions may have been attributed to fear.  This has never really occurred to me before.  Perhaps I was always either too close to an emotionally charged situation or sadly, never had the inclination to discover what was behind her responses to certain situations.

She was afraid of horses, narrow mountain roads and my father's impatience with farm animals.  She was afraid that bears would come get her when she and my dad went camping. She overcame her fear of driving by getting her drivers' license when she was well into her 30's.  When we moved a province away, she was always afraid this was the last time she'd see us.  During my growing up years, her greatest fear expressed itself in frequent lectures (with much sighing and rolling of the eyes on my part) about 'what boys want' and how unbearable it would be for her if one of her girls came home pregnant.  She was determined that our family's reputation would always be untainted by that situation.

At the same time, she spoke of God's faithfulness, assuring us that he would always be with us - which was comforting - and that he always sees us (which was not always comforting).  From my perspective, her greatest fear also translated into lack of trust in my integrity.  At the time, it almost made me want to realize her greatest fear, to spite her.  But the faith she nurtured within me also prevented me from following through.  (I often wondered if she would have found it in her heart to be supportive in such a situation.)

This great fear of hers resulted in arguments about the length of my skirts, where I went and with whom (and when), and curfews.  Today, I can see the wisdom of some of these restrictions.  I was basically naive, and still tend to be blinded to the darker side of people.

Others would never have known she was fearful, since she was always full of jokes and trickery, and had a great sense of humor.  She was hospitable and extroverted.  School friends and neighborhood kids were welcome at our house. Another person at the table was never a problem.  Later, she always played games with her grand kids, as she had done with us and our friends - she loved cards - especially crib.

It sometimes saddens me that my mother and I did not have the close mother/daughter relationship that would have allowed us to discuss any subject - openly and without judgement or defensiveness.

Like Gordon's mother, mine is more of the child now; she doesn't remember my name (although she recognizes me as someone dear to her), and she's unable to hold a conversation.  She doesn't always remember what to do with a fork or spoon, and doesn't remember family names or relationships.  On good days though, her sense of humor is still evident by the glint in her eyes as she does a 'happy dance' behind her walker.

I have long ago given over the tension that once existed between us and trust that a solid faith still resides deep with her - a faith that will not fail her in her last days.

 

Thunder and Lightning - Oh Yeah!

As a small child I would never have guessed that one day I would enthusiastically welcome the chaos of a powerful thunderstorm.  The prairies offered regular summer thunderstorms that shook the foundations of our house.  Bolts of lightning flashed through the windows and I often imagined being struck by one through the panes of glass.  But alas, I have moved away from the prairies and thunderstorms are now a rare event.

One of my earliest memories is of  being put to bed one afternoon in an upstairs spare room.  Although my memory of this particular room is unclear, I remember it being sparse, big and scary.  My impression was that I had done something to deserve being there, but I'm not sure.  Thunder rumbled intermittently outside the walls of the bedroom.  My mother came in and told me (in her native Dutch tongue) that God was 'bose' - angry.  I wondered if his anger was directed at me.

As young children, my sister and I were often awakened at night by great peals of thunder as they enveloped the house, reverberating beneath it.  The obscure clothes cabinet became blindingly present in unpredictable flashes, as walls vibrated with every new round that made us crawl deeper under the covers.  If the interval between lightning strikes and thunder was almost non-existant, Mom and Dad would come to sit with us or get us up in anticipation of a strike which thankfully, never occurred.

A little girl's wide-eyed fear eventually grew into wide-eyed awe.

Today I watch as a rare storm rages outside my window.  I am awe-struck by the intensity of lightning fingers as they streak a darkening sky and resounding cracks snapping angrily as if offended at not being first.  I turn off my music to catch more distant rumblings.  An expectant thrill moves through my body as I stop to pay attention.  I am not disappointed.  How I love a good, rousing thunderstorm!