god and mothers (a rambling)

I started going to church again when I was fifteen, mind you, it was the first time I’d gone with serious intention, not just as I had as a child, leaning the pew to color the children’s bulletin secretly. I was raised Catholic, yet I went mostly because I liked to sing and got to drink wine at the end of the service, which still felt rebellious, - as any consecration should.

 After my parents’ divorce, my mother had started going to mass five times a week for reasons that lie deep within her heart. I returned years later out of love for her, I wanted to share something with her, I wanted her to be proud of me for finding beauty in something that she took comfort in-- and had based quite a bit of her life on; religion.  Also, I thought I would try to get some of the guidance that she found in the church, being a teenager and all.

Entering the house of worship I was greeted with familiar faces, some grown sweet and kind with faith and time. I never really went there because I necessarily believed in God, especially the Catholic God that I had grown up with. White wooly plumage sprouting from the face of an old man in the sky seemed too unimaginative of a shape for how fantastic a God would be, if he’s up there.

It wasn’t until my therapist asked if I believed in God as a yes or no question that I denied any scraps of faith that I had so dearly wanted to feel.

She took a pause, she must have been a religious woman because I knew she sensed my hesitance, and met my eyes sympathetically that she offered simply; “God is love”. I sat on that for a while, letting the barriers of physical bodies break what had been installed into my head, and I began to feel closer to a confident belief—

God is love!

This led me to reflect on the meaningful love I had in my life. Maybe God was in my favorite book, in the language of art, in the smell of a campfire on a cool summer night, in my mom’s hearty potato stew, in mom.

I had, had God kneeling right next to me all along, even as I searched for him in the clouds, in the book, in the reflection of the wine I so tenderly sipped, swished, and relished.

It clicked for me that a mother’s love is a reflection of god’s love, Christ has risen and evolved to infiltrate our language, our chemistry, and our hearts as an intangible being. God is in the worlds suffering, giving us hardship for his own survival, thriving on the contrast and whimsy of humanity.

But I see it in her. In the way she holds my hand even when she’s driving, even when my fingers are cold, even though I’m a smelly teenager. I feel god in her embrace, her loving gaze, and her weary eyes as we plan for my departure for college.

Please keep in mind that I think I would be just as comfortable knowing that her love was not aided by any other worldly power. But for now, I do find comfort that he is there in my relationship with her.

For love is so extra fantastic, that I see God slipping into its shape just fine.

It's late and I'm feeling too introspective for my own good. 

Thanks for reading.