Today my mother hates God. I arrive at Aroha to find her shouting abuse at one of the sweetest carers in the place. Go away! she is shouting, leave me alone – I don’t have to do what you say! You are a horrible, horrible person. You're Hitler! The mild young man with the medication tray, who bears no resemblance at all to a murderous megalomaniac, is looking uncertain. I plonk myself down on the other side of her. Hey, I say, is that the way a good Catholic speaks to other people?
She spins around. Her face lights up. Then darkens again. The carer backs quietly away, throws me a small thankful smile.
I’m not a good Catholic, she says. I’m a bad Catholic.
Surely not, I say. We went to Mass just a few days ago. What will cheer you up? Shall we go and read more of Prince Caspian in your room?
No, she says. I hate Prince Caspian. I hate C.S.Lewis.
Nooo, I say. Well, let’s go to your room and see what Dad has written on your whiteboard.
We walk slowly down to her room. She is angry, angry, angry with every step.
We sit side by side on her bed and look at the whiteboard. Read it to me, she says, I can’t see it from here.
It’s Lizzy’s neat handwriting. She has written, “Ellis, Lizzy and Lucy came to see you today. You looked beautiful in red. We love you”.
Hrrrmph, says my mother, glowering.
What’s with you, I ask. Isn’t that nice?
No, she says. Yes. No. Nothing is nice. I HATE God.
Oh, I say. Why do you hate God?
Well, look
at the mess of the world, she says, look at THIS place. If he wanted to, he
could just wave his wand and sort it all out. But he doesn’t. He just folds his arms and sits there.
I don’t think God is a magician, I say, he doesn’t have a wand.
Huh, she says. Well, it’s all the same: he looks down and sees how everything is awful and does NOTHING.
What do you think he IS doing, I ask.
Probably polishing his fingernails, she says, and mimics someone admiring their nails and blowing on the varnish to dry it. The image is so vivid and unexpected that I laugh out loud.
You may laugh, she says grimly, but it is so.
Why don’t we read some of your favourite Bible verses, I suggest, that might cheer you up. I read from her Good News Bible: Psalm 23, the end of Romans 11, and 1 Corinthians 13.
She manages what is indisputably a Blakemore sniff.
What do you think, I ask.
I think, she says, that I’m trying very hard not to stab my well-meaning daughter who is reading trite passages from the Bible.
Fair enough, I laugh. Ah well, let’s say a prayer and tell God how you’re feeling.
YOU can, she says. He’s not listening.
I hold her hand and pray: thank you God, that you don’t mind us telling you exactly how we feel. My mother is very angry with you right now. She is full of spiky feelings and she thinks you should do something about the world and this place. Please surround her with your love and peace. Please do something about the world. Thank you for listening. Amen.
Huh, she
says. And then: you know, I think we're having ice-cream cones with dinner tonight.
As I drive home, I remember how I took her to Mass just a few days before. I remember how the old charismatic song, His name is wonderful, came on as we drove to Dad’s and how tears ran into the folds of her cheeks. I remember my mother and father that day in the garden, inspecting the lavender, the apple blossom and the mock orange, watching the bumblebees in the purple hebe. I remember how they marvelled over the mandarin tree covered in creamy blossom, my mother leaning in to inhale the scent of the flowers.
Later I go to exposition at the Cathedral. I look at the candles and the monstrance with its golden spikes which always seem to me quite ridiculous. And I tentatively, carefully try out new words. I’m angry, I whisper. I’m so angry. And I’m sad. I’m overwhelmed with sadness. I think I might be afraid too. I don’t like these feelings. I don’t know what to do. Thank you for listening.
Dappled light, refracted through the coloured glass, makes patterns on the cool white walls of the church. I grope in my pocket for a tissue. Someone on the other side of the church coughs. A door behind me opens and closes. Enfolded in that gentle light, my body relaxes, and I nestle into a quiet and unexpected peace.