The Kidnapping

 

Years ago, I had to take unconscious bias training at work. To my surprise, it indicated that I had an unconscious bias against the elderly.  I thought this was nonsense - I had found the test confusing. But even supposing the test was accurate, I am now learning something new: the special joy of spending time with the very old. I apologise here for writing another blog post so soon about taking my mother out on a Wednesday, but these times are very special and I don't want them to be forgotten. 

We have had days, weeks of rain this spring, and the weather has been very cold. Last Wednesday morning the temperature plummeted to near zero. Was it wise to take my mother out on such a day, I wondered. But in the end I decided yes, we could make it happen. I pack Vermont socks and two woolly hats for mum to choose between, and a scarf and gloves into my bag and head out into the cold. 

She is quiet as we get into the car, wrapped in scarf and hat and gloves, and we are on the road before she says with a tone of reproach "you haven't asked me anything about the kidnapping" . "The kidnapping?" "Yes," she says "I was kidnapped last night".

 "Ah", I say, slowly. There's always that heart beat of a moment where you have to choose your response.  "But I just picked you up from Aroha. Are you telling me the kidnappers also brought you back?" 

"Well, obviously", she says. 

I push back a smile. "But kidnappers don't usually do that," I say carefully, "why would they do that?" [Bruce said afterwards when I told him about this conversation that he could think of a range of reasons why kidnappers might decide, on reflection, to return my mother.]  

"Well," she says," they knew you were taking me out today and they were afraid of you. On account of your cousin being a cardinal." Then after a pause, "I didn't know you had a cousin who was a cardinal". 

"Maybe that's because I don't  have a cousin who was a cardinal!" I say, and then I start laughing and can't stop. "Why aren't you taking this more seriously?" she says, indignant now. "Because it was a dream!" I choke out, " a dream, mum!" and then she starts laughing. We laugh all the way to church. 

"You know just the right things to cheer me up" she says as we unravel ourselves from the car. I get the walker out of the back and roll it up to the passenger seat. "Your chariot, ma'am" I say. "Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home" sings my mother. "His chariots of wrath the deep thunder clouds form, and dark is his path on the wings of the storm" I sing. "You're so dramatic", she says, as she places Teddy carefully on the walker. 

There are a lot of people at Mass, most of them elderly. My favourite priest is saying Mass - he's in his eighties too. I think of him as Father Chandler on account of his tendency to put stresses on the wrong words in a sentence (Lamb OF God, you take away the sins OF the world ...."). When it comes to communion, he steps forward to give communion to my mother and then pauses. He lays his hands on Teddy's head and makes the sign of the cross on him. "God bless you, Teddy," he says, and there is a murmur of laughter from the congregation. I glance back: everyone is smiling. After Mass, people hover around us, inviting us to stay for coffee. Mum doesn't even glance up. I murmur my thanks - they are kind people, they treat us gently. 

On the way to Dad's, Mum says "I think you've changed recently". I think about all the change that has happened in my life in the last few months, leaving work, feeling displaced and full of grief and anger, uncertain of myself and my future. But also the strange wild joy of being in church. I wonder what she means and feel a moment's anxiety. "Is it good change or bad," I ask. "I'm not sure", she says. "I think you're more confident. But also more aware of people's suffering." This surprises me.

 It's always lovely when we arrive at Dad's. She is full of joy. Dad is happy, welcoming, teasing her, making sure she's comfortable and sitting where she can look out at the garden. The next happy hour flies by. "Time to go," I say. "Oh wait", says Dad. He picks up something from the little table beside him and pulls himself to his feet, heading over to Mum. "I've got something for you," he says, "I've been cleaning out my wardrobe and found this little ring - do you remember, I gave this to you before we were married. Perhaps it can replace the wedding ring you lost.". He bends over her, almost as if, if he could, he'd be going down on one knee. "Jean Emerson," he says solemnly, "will you marry me?"  and he slips the ring on her finger. "Wait!" says Mum, "I thought we were already married??" "Of course we are", he says, "I'm just an old romantic".  She reaches up to stroke his face. 

 On the way back I take Mum for a drive through the cherry blossom at the Esplanade. She's too tired to get out but she gazes and gazes. We sing with the music on the car stereo (I have a special playlist for her now). We're still singing as we walk back into Aroha, even though she's made her usual disparaging remarks (this time it was "Abandon hope all ye who enter here". She may have lost her memory but she can still quote Dante). I unwrap her from the scarf and gloves and hat and put them back into my bag (they will be lost if I leave them there), settle her at the dining table, and kiss her wispy hair. And by the time I reach the door she's forgotten me. 

As I drive home, I grieve over her dream. Because of course she has been kidnapped, snatched out of her home, her life, denied the right to make the choices of how to spend her day. In the place where she's forced to live, she's often as angry, confused and distressed as any kidnap victim. 

I've never doubted that we made the right call, never doubted that there was any other way to care for her. And I suppose, if I wanted to be clever, I could argue that dementia was the real kidnapper, the real villain who had robbed my mother of her freedom and the bright spark of her mind. Perhaps.

But on Wednesday mornings, faithfully and lovingly, her kidnapper takes her home.

Return to the Catholic Church

 

Perhaps my rather peripatetic relationship with the church comes down to the fact I was the child of a mixed marriage.

I hasten to add here that “mixed marriage” had quite a different meaning in the 1950s. When my parents wanted to get married in 1959 there was uproar in the families about where the wedding should take place. It was not a concern to my parents: my mother was a declared atheist and my father more interested in sex, clothes, and rock and roll than existential questions. It was not a concern to my grandfathers: one was an atheist like his daughter and the other didn’t appear to have any religious connection. But both my grandmothers were stubborn, irrational ,and unreasonable women. My Grandma Holdbrook (who hadn’t attended Mass for decades) insisted that if they didn’t get married in the Catholic Church, she’d never speak to them again. My Grandma Emerson (a Northern Irish Protestant from Londonderry) declared that if they got married in a Catholic Church, not only would she never speak to them again but no-one from that side of the family would attend the wedding.

Grandma Holdbrook carried the day. No surprises there, And so my parents were married in St Joseph’s Catholic Church and the only person to attend from my father’s side was his best man and brother, my Uncle Pat. (As an aside, my Grandma Emerson relented 9 months later when I was born and she sent a message to say she would like to meet her first granddaughter.)

 

My mother continued in her atheistic ways until I was 6 when a conversion experience during a thunderstorm sent her to the local Anglican church. I have fond memories of this place: the gentle priest, harvest festivals, and my brother attending a Christmas service one year dressed as a dalek. When we moved to Duffield, I attended a Church of England primary school. But my mother had another encounter with God, and this time she went back to the Catholic Church taking me (and later my sister) with her.

In the years that followed, in New Zealand, my mother taught at the local Catholic school and was very involved at St Thomas Moore Parish. All my parents’ friends were Catholic. This church in the 70s was in the grip of charismatic renewal and we attended a charismatic prayer group for years.

Fast forward to my university years and I was the only Catholic in a very ecumenical group of young people. Most days, I took a sleepy walk down to the Mercy chapel for 6:30am Mass with the nuns. Sundays I would go to Mass in the early morning, catch up with friends at the Christian Centre at 10am, and then join the whole group in the evening for a service at All Saints Anglican church.

I was married in the Catholic Church. Gerard belonged to an eccentric Catholic family, and his complex relationship with the church disrupted my simpler faith. My two older children were baptized in the Catholic Church and I have memories of being a member of the parish council at the then St Patrick’s church, the youngest there by decades, my baby asleep in a basket beside me.

But my faith was unravelling. Parish council meetings were incomprehensible and discouraging, and Gerard’s constant rage about the church was eating away at my naiveté. So when my marriage exploded and I went to see the priest to discuss the situation with him, I finally lost heart. It was no problem, the priest said. We could get an annulment and then it would be “as if the marriage had never happened”. He meant to be kind. I knew that. But I thought about my two young children and the damage I’d experienced through this marriage, and I thought “that is madness. The church has nothing to do with the truth. This is the end for me.” I left, and I thought I’d never go back.

Apart from a blip in my early thirties, though, I could never leave the (small c) church. I spent 15 years at All Saints, becoming a lay minister, lay preacher, and warden, and then 12 years at Central Baptist, again becoming part of the preaching team and an elder. These are stories for another day.

But a little over two years ago now, I woke up one morning with a clear voice in my head: go back to Mass. I was completely flummoxed. Such an idea seemed ridiculous. But the voice was so unmistakable that  I went to Mass at midday at the Cathedral the same day.

It was an ordinary mid-week Mass. There were maybe 30 people in the church. A tired old priest said the Mass pared back to the essentials. And there, in the Eucharist, I found something so remarkable, so holy and mysterious and true, that I struggled to hold back my tears. It was like coming home to something I'd always known but never truly seen before

 

I was cautious at first. It seemed incomprehensible that a female preacher and liturgist could be called to the Catholic church. For six months I carried on attending CB on Sundays but slipped into Mass during the week. Every time was the same: ordinary and remarkable. I could not – I still cannot - describe it. I could not mount a defence of transubstantiation but what I can say is that a great mystery is present every time the Mass is said, something so vast and huge which fills my heart with longing.

Mary Wakefield (from the Spectator, of all places) expresses my own feelings well:

I can still summon my old impression of the Catholic church – kitsch, gloomy, misogynistic – but then there’s how life inside it feels too. It’s like the Tardis or C.S.Lewis’s wardrobe: an unpromising little doorway that happens to open into a whole new land….Transubstantiation, celibate priests, active saints, venerated bones, the dominance of Mary: from a distance, to me they all seem absurd, distasteful. But take a few steps towards them, and they begin to make frightening sense”.

So many things I thought would bother me…don’t. I thought I would mind that all priests were male. But what I’ve noticed is that the priests have a way of….this is so hard to describe – disappearing during the Eucharist, so that who they are really doesn’t matter.

I thought it would bother me that there was no quality preaching in the church. But one priest commented that the homily is not intended as exegesis or teaching: its purpose is to uplift the people of God to prepare them to receive the miracle among them. That makes sense to me. A powerful sermon would distract from what really matters. A powerful preacher cannot help but draw attention to themselves. Instead, everything, everything points to the Eucharist. To that holy miracle of Christ’s sacrifice and resurrection and presence among us.

I’ve never attended such a multicultural church. I’d been at the church for about a year when I attended a Maundy Thursday Mass. We sang “One bread, one body”  and as I watched lines and lines of people move towards the altar for communion it seemed like a passage from Revelation, a glimpse of heaven, as people from every nation (darling Indian children in their fancy clothes, slouching teenagers in hoodies, a group of Tokelauan men in native dress) streamed towards the throne.

The Catholic Church is still to me a baffling institution. It’s been incredibly hard to make friends. Their attitude to any kind of prayer outside of the Mass makes me shake my head in bewilderment and frustration. Their meetings are studies in disorganization. I know there are problems, long historical abuses, archaic attitudes to women.

But what I also know is this: that when the priest raises the host there is something there, some call to my heart’s deepest desire, something that I’ve never experienced in any other church, something so full of joy and glory that it calls me back again and again and again.