Mommy vs. God…
Or at Least the Teachings of a Well-intentioned Mother-in-law!
Me vs. God. OK, maybe not God, per se. Not God, but a little old lady’s Southern Baptist, west Texas, Jesus praising, “Bless Your Heart” infused interpretations of God. Don’t get me wrong. I love this little old lady. This little old lady is one of the most loving and generous people I have had the privilege to know. She has struggled through profound hardship, loss and grief. She loves my husband and my children; and, I do believe, me, absolutely and without condition or reservation.
This little old lady is my mother-in-law.
My mother-in-law and I differ on many things, not the least of which is politics, socialized medicine, Muslims and of course, The Almighty. Go ahead and toss Jesus in there for good measure. Now, by and large, these differences of opinion have little or no bearing on my relationship with her. I accept her, regardless her various contrary persuasions, and go about my day. Or, I did, until these persuasions ran headlong, with a great SMACK!, into my own belief system, or more aptly put, the lack thereof, and how I am choosing to raise my own children.
Four years ago, we traveled to my husband’s hometown in Northern Virginia to spend Christmas with his friends and family as well as celebrate his 40th. Recently unemployed hubby; our two boys, aged 5 and 20 months; and myself, pregnant with child number three; of course, descended on my mother-in-law for a seemingly interminable five-week visit. She lives alone in a large, early 60’s era home typical of many DC suburbs. Ordinarily this house would provide more than enough space for all of us, however on this occasion, the combination of the length of our stay and the frustrations of my being pregnant and without any immediate plans for a family income, was more than even this big, drafty colonial could endure.
It began simply. It began with prisms. Not any old prisms, but a cluster of prisms hanging from mother-in-law’s, Grammy’s, dining room ceiling, in front of the large picture window overlooking her wooded back yard. They were tiny, beautiful. Together, dangling, creating a mystical profusion of rotating colors, projecting onto every wall of the room. To Grammy, these were not simply prisms. They were her angels. It was a sweet characterization and honestly, one actually got the sense of a knowing presence in the form of these cleverly angled cuts of glass and in the colors they fashioned. However, in her conversations with my then five-year-old son, what began as innocent references to angels in the dining room, turned quickly to conversations about God. Admittedly, it was a natural segue, from angels to God, but it was not one that I had had a chance to prepare for.
One chilly Virginia morning, alone in the kitchen, after who knows how many conversations with Grammy, I was approached by said five year old with the comment, “God loves me. God takes care of us.” OK. Now, given my own very ambiguous feelings about the Omniscient, the Omnipotent, the Omnipresent, I was struck somewhat dumb. I had not been raised with religion, organized or otherwise. I was raised by parents of equal ambivalence and consequently hadn’t hammered out any distinct or complete system of spiritual beliefs. I had flirted with both contrasting points of view, “there is no God” and “there is some kind of energy”, though never quite fleshing out or committing to either. Not exactly a foundation with which to build a comprehensive argument to a five year old. Grammy, on the other hand, had such trust and confidence in her faith that she, of course, could produce a much more compelling case. Not only compelling, but given a child’s need for a sense of security and safety beyond the limited facilities of parents, the concept of an all-powerful being capable of this feat, and so much more, is profoundly comforting to one so vulnerable.
My response: a jumbled, confused, feeble and, by and large, completely inadequate attempt to open his mind to the vastness of why we exist. My laughable excuse for an explanation of something greater than ourselves, was punctuated by my little boy stating confidently, “I believe what Grammy believes.” OUCH!
Without considering the simple fact that a young child enjoys a story, a story of unbound love, support and safety, in particular, I immediately allowed myself to feel threatened. Threatened by what I perceived as this other woman’s influence over my child, but also threatened by this woman’s conviction of belief that I surely didn’t have and had never ever known. My all too immediate response: tearful, irrational, and unfortunately loud enough to penetrate the furthest reaches of the big house, “God is for simple-minded people who are unable to think for themselves!” Impressive. A response spat, laden with venom and vitriol, at a five year old. Sadly, this outburst was a clear reflection of my numerous doubts and insecurities as a parent and how I was potentially failing him in not providing him with some kind of articulate and comprehensible foundation of faith.
Without question, my mother-in-law was very hurt. She had never anticipated that sharing her relationship with God would not be welcome in the lives of her grandchildren. Despite her hurt and, without doubt, total confusion, she apologized to me for not recognizing boundaries, a valiant effort to keep peace. I said very little while accepting her apology, though I did so with heaviness, sickened in the knowing that, one, I had hurt her and; two, feeling threatened by her sharing, with her own grandson, was both incredibly foolish and painfully immature.
Certainly, upon reflection, knowing what I do these several years later, the simple fact of a child’s comfort and his relationship with his beloved grandmother, should have been enough to let it go; let Grammy speak about her faith, her God, that which is closest to her heart. There was nothing for me to prove. My son is a thoughtful, curious boy and will grow to be a thoughtful, curious man and with the combined contributions of each of us will come to his own conclusions about if or what he chooses to venerate and how he expresses his faith. It will be the exploration of all my children as it has been mine.
As I explore, an exploration that has taken more priority since this all came down in my mother-in-law’s cold kitchen, I see that she and I are not so far removed from one another. What I have learned in these most recent years and months, as I have focused more deeply on what it is I do believe; articulating it more clearly day by day; is that while I may not share her devotion to Jesus Christ, and my interpretation of God may differ from hers; I do now have a better understanding of what it is to have faith and what it is to be so very grateful. With this developing understanding, I am better able to surrender to a power, an energy, a force greater than myself, and trust that everything will be alright.
I am a work in progress. I am a parent in progress. I am evolving everyday and, I trust, for the better.
