Today (or shall I say yesterday as of a few minutes ago) was long and busy. I have had very little to do with myself over the past month, so the business has shocked my system somewhat, I dare say.
This afternoon, I had the honour (and I don't use the word lightly) of participating in the funeral service of Murray Pipe. It was such a privilege to play the piano and share some of my memories. Murray was one of the most lovely God fearing men I have ever known. Murray and Mary gave such a beautiful and powerful testament to me through their lives. I will cherish it always.
Immediately following the service, I went to school to catch the tail end of a class. The transition from grief and loss to information and lectures made my brain cramp. I feel as if I have been in a daze all day.
I went straight from college to home for teaching. Yes...busy life has returned; complacent life is gone for now.
I have been remiss in continuing "Jesus the One and Only." I must finish it before I get swamped in assignments. I feel my spirit getting thirsty. I feel full on garbage and bereft of pure sustenance. The last description is quite apt for my physical and spiritual health.
I have felt so sorry for myself this past month. True, there has been an ongoing spiritual battle in my life, but compared to the crises in the world...my worries are so trivial. I feel ashamed to have been pestering God with my laments while He is trying to tend to the poor, sick and helpless men, women and children in war-torn countries.
When I was 14, I was having an argument with my mother. I had a lot of resentment towards her in those days (as I did towards most adults). We were sitting in my Nana's kitchen; my father's mother. My mother left the house and drove off to run errands. I sat at the table arms crossed, scowling. My fragile grandmother leaned towards me. She spoke softly, almost tenderly, "You shouldn't be so angry at your Mom. You have no idea how lucky you are to have a good mother. Remember, there is always someone out there worse off than you are." Heat rose to my cheeks. The first few fresh tears began to sting my eyes. I bolted from the kitchen into the refuge of the back garden. It was my quiet place.
I paced up and down along the fence muttering to myself. "She doesn't know. She doesn't understand what it's like at times." I validated my outrage against the chastisement with the belief that if she were only better informed she would see my side. My pacing led me under the coverage of the towering pine tree. New thoughts entered my mind; thoughts of a different mother: my great-grandmother, Ma Naylor. To this day, I don't know that I have ever heard a kind word said of this woman whom I have never met.
I do know that she was a cold selfish woman. She was the type of woman who had a series of affairs while her husband was in Europe fighting for peace and freedom during World War I. My Nana was the product of this infidelity. She was born in secret in another city. Nana was registered as "Baby Girl" and later named "Gertrude Martha" after the two midwives. Her mother left her there and returned home. After Ma Naylor's husband returned, and the secret was out, he insisted that his wife return to the city and fetch the baby she had deserted. He would raise her as his own daughter. Nana was around two years old when she was brought home. Her mother greatly resented my Nana's presence and mistreated her terribly. There was no love or compassion between the mother and daughter.
As soon as I remembered these events, I felt humbled. Nana had been referring to her own heartache. However frustrated I could get with my own mother, I could not compare my caprices with the sadness of her childhood.
Nana could have been a kindred spirit to the Martha in the Bible. She was very task-oriented. There were reinforced walls built around her heart. She seemed to have limitations to demonstrating love and affection. As much as I loved her, she had some silly notions in her mind, nor did she consistently make the best choices in the relationships with her family. But I must say, she was never more gentle, vulnerable or wise as she was that afternoon in the kitchen.
Again, I am ashamed of myself. The trap of self pity casts a wide net. Even when I think that I am deliberately avoiding it, I have already trodden into it blindly. Lord, give me humility. Put me least in the kingdom. I pray that a day will come when it won't seem so surprising to realize myself so incredibly blessed.
