I went to college when I was already a mom and a wife. It was a life-changing experience, and one for which I will always be grateful. Being one of the more mature "returning students," I became very close to some of my professors and their staff. One of the former was a literature professor named Claudia. She was quite a character. A raging feminist who had only recently completed her doctorate, Claudia had a wildly sharp wit, and sarcasm and puns were among her favorite tools. But the thing that would have me rolling in the floor was listening to her stories from her childhood as the daughter of a Baptist preacher. I remember well the first time I heard that. Claudia was a PK? I'm from the Bible Belt, so that means the South, which also means Southern Baptist. I could just imagine Claudia, irreverent, rebellious and mischievous, doing anything but sitting quietly in the front pew. Occasionally she would recall instances when, as a young child, she would misinterpret scripture or hymns. One of the hymns was her Dad's favorite, "Jesus Savior Pilot Me." Claudia would laugh and say it was her favorite too, at first. "I would stand right there, next to my Momma and sing at the top o'my lungs, 'Jesus, save your pie for me!'" I would picture a very determined little Claudia, trying to out-sing all those other people wanting Jesus to save his pie for them. It still makes me chuckle.
There's another side to my relationship with Claudia. I took one of her lit classes, even though other friends said I might regret it. She was thrilled at first, but I didn't live up to her expectations for long. When I put my family responsibilities ahead of my academic accomplishments, Claudia was disappointed. She seemed to feel that I had betrayed her and betrayed every woman who struggled to achieve the dream of academic advancement. I had given in to tradition, tethering myself to a husband and kids who she assumed would never appreciate me or my accomplishments. Claudia quickly gave up on me and gave up on our friendship. I was hurt at first. But it wasn't that I was seeing a different side of Claudia's personality, I had just never been on the receiving end of her disdainful sarcasm and criticism. I realized that I had willingly become an accomplice to her cruel jokes and rapier wit aimed at others. Even if I hadn't approved of it, I never opened my mouth. I stood back, safe and smug in my favored position. I was ashamed. Ashamed that it took me tumbling from that favored position to admit my selfish and prideful attitude.
I admitted some other things after that. I knew my friend had some "issues," But because she made me laugh and she stroked my ego, I had allowed myself to look past the flaws that should have been evident. She was angry, bitter and defensive. She had spent her whole life rebelling against being put in a box. I don't know what she experienced that resulted in such an attitude, but I know it wasn't healthy. She seemed to view motherhood and being a wife as imprisonment, so maybe she had been hurt by someone she loved. The saddest thing of all was her disregard for the Church and for Jesus Christ. She resented them as tools society used to keep people-especially women--in "their places." I wonder if Claudia ever knew the freedom of a life in Christ? I pray that she did; that she does. I pray that she came to know my Jesus: the One who does so much more than save his pie for me. He gave his all for me and he saved my soul. He abides in me, and I abide in him. He is the Word and the Truth. He is my Jesus, my Savior, who does indeed pilot me.
Thank you Holy Jesus, for your abiding love, your grace that pours out over me in the blood you shed for my sins. I pray that blood of Jesus over Claudia, and those like her. That your light would blind them like Paul, to anything but your truth. That your thunderous presence would deafen them to any voice but that of the Holy Spirit. That they would know the freedom you offer when we lay our burdens down and take up your gentle yoke instead. Amen.
Reading today's post certainly brought thousands of memories flooding back into my mind too. Remember your drawing, the one of the cave, shadows on the wall, the fire outside?
ReplyDeletePhilosophically, psychologically and spiritually, we all view the same situation within our own perspectives. Yet, one of the memories that haunted me over the years was the concept that "perception is reality."
Many of our instructors, particularly folks in the music and fine arts department, made that comment on more than one occasion. Gerald J. saw me washing dishes one night after a party and noted "my mommy mode." I was embarrassed and ashamed, believing my "mommy mode" to be a derogatory term.
Isn’t it odd to grow older (and hopefully wiser) only to discover that some of our fondest memories aren’t things, but concepts and ideas that made us question our view of reality?
I too, am exceptionally thankful of having a “well-rounded” spiritual background. One grandfather was a devout Baptist, also in the Bible Belt, my maternal great-grandmother, whom I lovingly called “Big Mama,” was always sitting on the front pew of the Pentecostal Holiness Church, praising God, and shouting, “Amen,” and “Hallelujah,” every few minutes during the service. She was so loud; we children would slip down on the pew, embarrassed at the noise level. But Big Mama was always there, sitting in the same spot, every Sunday morning, Sunday evening, and Wednesday night for more than eighty-five years.
Then, my grandmother, Big Mama’s daughter, married a Catholic, a nice gentleman who lost his first wife to cancer, and Grannymama converted to Catholicism. When I stayed with her, I kept my veil, my rosary, and my Catholic Bible in the top drawer of my night stand, to use only at Mass. I was always amazed at the quiet calmness and serenity of Mass.
My step-father attended an Assembly of God Church and sang in a gospel quartet. When I was eleven, my guidance counceler asked about my religion, and I flippantly replied, “Depends on which Sunday of the month, and who I’m staying with.” A note was sent home to my mother, admonishing her of my “lack of security and religious understanding.”
Now, I’ve reached a stage of life where I think it would do children well to attend a variety of churches and contemplate various aspects of spirituality. But I do have to disagree with the idea that “perception is reality.” Humans conceive particular perceptions, God sees all, and only God knows the reality of it all. In my younger days I even questioned the reality of a god being out there at all. Now, I realize the silliness of that perception. There is a God, and the reality is that only God can create reality.
I finally left the cave myself, and I am so exceptionally grateful to know that my perception in understood by a good God, and that, while I am created in his image, He recognizes my imperfections, insecurities, and hesitations as one who has not, yet, learned enough. Thank God for our journey, for our perceptions, and for recognizing our shortcomings as a mother does a child. He loves us, and for me, that knowledge is enough.
Shirley, reading about your note from the teacher really made me laugh! And you know what? I had forgotten about the "cave drawing." I guess our present circumstances have a lot to do with what we remember and when. Thanks for bringing more memories back to me. I love you!
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