My Mother and God

Of course, I love my mother. I have to admit that she’s always tried to be there for me, in spite of our less-than-perfect family. Mom supported me through all my ups and downs. She got me through braces, gymnastics, broken friendships, an absent father, going away to camps or college, career struggles, and my many moves. She was even surprisingly empathetic over bad boyfriends (if I told her about them). But my mother is so annoying when it comes to her religious stuff. She has her views, and never misses a chance to share. It makes me feel like I am 15 again, arguing with her over why I really don’t need to go to a service every week to hear another boring talk. 

Take my birthday box that my mother sent me yesterday. It was chockfull of darling stuff. There were some Lululemon clothes she knows I can’t afford, and a little heart-shaped designer purse that I instantly see myself casually flaunting at work. But Mom had to ruin all the great presents, and add in one of those devotional plaques she loves. It had some scripture quote from the book of Proverbs that says “Trust in the Lord with all your heart blahblahblahsomething …and He will make straight your paths.” Now I’m stuck with this religious tchotchke from her. I’ll have to make a note-to-self and remember to put this thing up whenever my mother comes to visit. 

Mom’s birthday box represents our relationship- pretty good, but always having some strings attached. Or maybe not strings exactly- her input just always brings up old issues. I got some great birthday presents, but now I also have this “Lord making straight your path” stuff swimming in my head. God and my mother, they’ve got this thing going. But it’s just not for me. I don’t have that religious trust like her. She’s told me her faith has helped her through cancer and other stuff, but I don’t care. 

This morning, I swear there’s almost a literal spotlight shining down on that flower-decorated plaque poking out of her box on my table. (Does the morning light through my window always look like that?) “Trust, trust, trust… ” preaches mom’s plaque, and wait for those “straight paths.” That plaque can preach to me all it wants, but I’m finding no straight paths this morning. At all.

The complications start even before breakfast. It’s my fault, I guess, but I had big trouble finding anything to wear for work- anything clean anyway. The laundry basket in my closet had been needing attention for some days. Yesterday was the absolute tipping point for having any clean work clothes for today. I knew I should spend some time on a trek to the apartment laundry room last night. I even had my bowl of quarters out on the kitchen counter, to remind me that I was doing laundry after work.

However, it only took one phone call from my friend last night. Instead of practical domesticity, I opted to go out to Bobo’s for my birthday. I had lots of fun, but my dirty clothes did not. So my heavy perfume trick is going to have to suffice on clothes dredged out of the laundry basket for today’s work outfit. Maybe the cute new purse will distract from my wrinkled blouse or any possible aromas. 

My mom’s “Straight Path syndrome” continues to zigzag me everywhere but straight. In the kitchen, I’m finally almost out of the door. But while getting my travel mug ready for the car, I spill hot coffee everywhere. (At least I did not spill coffee on myself, though it likely would have blended with my already messy look). I throw some kitchen towels on the drippy mess on the floor for later clean-up- and hurry for my car. 

Why are the smallest most trivial things sometimes the most vital? How many battles have been lost because a bugler did not show up, or the mailroom guy didn’t deliver an updated map to the general in time? A huge ship is aimless without a little rudder, and a car - in particular my car this morning- is going nowhere. Yes, I am going to be late for work, because of one small problem. 

“My keys- where are my keys?”

I still have my old purse with me since I did not have time to change everything to the cute new one. The keys of course are not in there, even after I frantically dump everything out on the car hood. Frustrated, I abandon the contents of my old purse on the hood, along with that troublesome travel mug full of steadily cooling coffee. Exiting the parking garage, I bolt back up the stairs, back to my apartment. I finally spot the car keys innocently sitting on the kitchen counter, as big as life, next to the bowl of quarters. I swear that the keys were not there before- I know I would have seen them.

“Trust in the Lord,” whispers mom’s plaque from the sunbeam as I storm out. 

When I finally make it to the freeway, the radio news is blaring on about some traffic pileup. “Wonderful! More delay!” I mutter at the car clock showing how late for work I am now. I am grousing out loud about my mother and her God NOT making straight my path, when I suddenly realize the traffic news is going on way past its normal reporting time. It seeps into my frazzled brain that there is some big deal going on. 

Laurie’s worried phone call from work confirms it.

“Ellen, are you okay?”

It seems that my freeway delay isn’t just a mundane traffic jam. It turns out that it is the largest multi-car accident in U.S. history. Something like 250 vehicles are involved, and there are lots of injured people, although thankfully no casualties. Some tractor-trailer truck struck a concrete divider, which started a massive chain reaction. Multiple cars kept crashing, and they end up having to close two miles of my freeway for most of the day. I’m able to reroute around the mess, and arrive very very late for work, but with a bonafide excuse. It turns out I’m not the only late one. My boss is a total no-show- his was one of the many cars rear-ended in the chain reaction.  

Of course I quickly realize that if I had been on time for work as I planned, I would have been right in the middle of the accidents. It all took place exactly on my daily route, going northbound, right when I would have been there. There was a high probability that I’d have gotten major damage to my car, or to me, or both. That “making straight your path” stuff from my mom was looking a bit different now.

Maybe I was feeling thankful, with a little respect for what I did not quite understand mixed in with it. So when I got home after work, even before I cleaned up that coffee spill, I did something totally out of character. I found a clear spot on my living room wall, next to my theater posters- and that’s where I hung up that little plaque. It’s not really my decorating style, but Mom will get a kick out of seeing it there on her next visit. 

And maybe it’s a good reminder for me to start working on my trust issues- with my mother, and maybe her God.