I awoke to scuttling, scratching, gnawing sounds. A mouse was in my room. Immediately I thought defensively. I tried to clap, to scare it away, but my hands were slow to move and the sound they produced was muffled by the covers. The mouse continued his racket making. The noise came from the foot of my bed. I could only imagine that he was trying to make his way up there, turn into a monster mouse and attack me. Or at least bite me and give me a deadly disease, rabies or something. I started banging my feet against the bed, stomping, as it were, under the covers. Surely that sound, and the movement would frighten him away. The mouse, however, continued unfazed. The monster mouse would be frightened by nothing. I’ve never before been woken by a mouse, and yet the noise was vaguely familiar. Since my best efforts to scare it away hadn’t worked, I stopped for a moment and listened. Its scuttling was like fluttering, the scratching and gnawing like the taping of a trapped insect against glass, like a moth or a fly, exactly like a moth or a fly. And I, I have my roommate Charity to deal with problems like that. I listened to the noise for less than a minute more, and then a reassuring quiet filled our room. The creature lay caught in Charity’s web.
Saturday, 10 May 2014
A Mother’s Day Post
It is a little atypical for me to post a seasonal post as such, and I don’t really mean to. It is just that I’ve been thinking about mothers a lot, and it just so happens that tomorrow is mother’s day. Really though it is an accident and a coincidence.
I’ve been living with a family and spending my time observing a four year old boy interact with his mother. We’ll call him Wallace.
Wallace love his mother, and his mother loves him. She loves being able to say “yes” to him. She loves chasing him around and getting down on the floor and playing with him. She loves cuddling him and kissing him. She wants to see him succeed, and tries to explain what is best for him. However, she lets him use his freewill, make poor choices, but she still loves him. She teaches him to do things on his own. She loves to listen to him, and desires so much to understand what he is saying. Wallace is loved. He is given the best that his mom has to offer. When he calls, his mother is quick to listen, to come to his aid. I was likening their relationship to my relationship with God. Meanwhile, I have been reading a book about the fatherhood of God. But, I started wondering, what about heavenly mother. While belief in a heavenly mother is upheld in LDS teachings, I’ve heard nothing about her. I don’t have a problem believing in heavenly mother, but I haven’t heard a satisfactory explanation for why she is not spoken about.
But, I’ve been thinking about mothers. Perhaps I’ve been wanting to be mothered, to be loved like Wallace is loved. It doesn’t seem like heavenly mother loves us like that at all. Rather it feels much more like we are forbidden to even much talk about her, let alone talk to her or have a relationship with her. Like Wallace I want to cry out “mom, mom, MOM!” and have my heavenly mother answer calmly, “yes, bud?” Then I could say “I want supper.” And she would ask, “what do you want?” I’d think for a moment and then reply, “a peanut butter and jam sandwich.” Then she would ask me to get the peanut butter and jam. I’d do all I could and she’d make me a sandwich, and then another one if I was still hungry.
I could believe in mother earth, that she is our heavenly mother, the wind calling us, the vegetation serving us, forests playing with us. I could believe in mother earth, selflessly giving resources to her children, laying herself down for them, allowing them to walk all over her and yet loving them the same. I could believe in mother earth; a heavenly mother who gives everything for her kids, that we can know, tangibly interact with, lay down to rest with, simply be with her. I could believe in mother earth; a mother who so loves her children that she gets down on their level, sings over them as a bird, plays with them as the mountains. I could believe in mother earth, that she is our heavenly mother who has come down as the sunrise to be with her children, who, a bubbling stream rejoices in her children.
I could be wrong. I can hear the counter arguments running through my head. But don’t just crush this mosaic. Doing so will leave me feeling abandoned, empty. If you must take this picture away, leave me something even more beautiful in its stead.