Patricia
"THE ELEPHANT IS IN THE ROOM, AND IT’S BIG. SO IT’S NOT MOVING. Not one turn. Not one inch. Still, my daughter and I talk around it, pretending our ten-ton problem isn’t there—insisting it will stay quiet and be okay if we just ignore the obvious and keep on moving. So we’re politely jawing about my kitchen cabinets and drawers, nicely talking about my fight to finally clean them out and make some order and find some peace.
“You're decluttering?” Alana says. “Why now? Your kitchen is fine.”
But it’s not fine. Not really. And neither are we. Not like we used to be. Or maybe never were.
Yet how can I even think such a thing? After all, I know God. I know all my God can do. That’s how I boast anyway. Most days I boast, that is.
But it’s the day before Mother’s Day. Alana has called me on the phone to say hi, tell me she loves me, wish me the best. I’m hanging on to every word, as I always do when my daughters call, ecstatic to hear their living and lovely voices. Yet with Alana, there’s always this wish: that things were different—back to the way they once were or the way I wish they’d always been, so long ago now I can’t seem to remember.
Like they were? Yes. I wish she was still a Christian. No, that’s not the whole of it. I wish on this day before Mother’s Day something more. I wish she wasn’t a Muslim. So now I’ve said it. In my heart. And right here on a page. Oh so quiet. But oh so brave. I’ve said it. Like a prayer. O my God. Not boastful. Just a desperate plea. How did my younger baby leave the faith of Christ and stop believing? "
Alana
"Why am I a Muslim? It’s the big question of my life—and the big conundrum for a mother and a father I love. But my answers aren’t simple. And neither is my life...
I need a moment. But I can’t sleep just yet because I’m staring at my computer, trying to figure out a way to explain to my mother why I became a Muslim.
Her question doesn’t surprise me. I know that, although we smile and go along with our daily lives as if nothing is wrong, she will probably never be at peace with my decision. Still, I wonder if I will be able to talk to her about such an emotional issue."
Okay. This is going to be a very different blog post than the others I do. My habit is to do my blog posts when I am done reading them, and the odd time, I do it mid reading. But this book was read years ago. If I could, I would prefer to reread it before I do a blog post, but I have a backlog of books that I haven't read that I want to get read first. But I have noticed that I reference "Undivided" in a few of my blog posts and I haven't done my write up on it. So this is it.
Most of the books I read are done with my iBooks E-Reader, so I can highlight quotes as I read. With "Undivided" I had the hard paperback copy, and I didn't underline a thing. Usually I am underlining the wisdom and great quotes I find along the way. They are like unearthing treasure. This, however, was a different kind of read. I embraced this book as one that drew me into the relationship of two women. My take away was more than the words, it was Love.
Alana
"My mother and I are really good at talking about easy stuff. Every time she calls, her usual questions are “How’re the kids?,” “How’s the hubby?,” and “How’s work?” And then I rattle off my own questions about what’s going on in her life. She informs me about Dad’s choir practice and her recent trip to Saver’s, the local thrift store, where she found some “practically new” outfit for a ridiculously low price. We laugh politely and then get off the phone. But we never talk about faith."
Patricia
I look over those words, and my eyes want to spin in my head. I want to argue that there was not only talking but also perceiving. That I can’t understand how a beautiful daughter can grow up in a house with an on-site mother—a hovering, harnessing, harping, relentlessly involved mother—but say I wasn’t there.
That I didn’t talk. Implying I must not have cared.
I felt Alana's pain as I read through her part of the story. I have often wondered how I share my differing ideas on faith, religion and life with my mother. I think I even gave this book for my Mom to read, but we never talked about that either. It does seem easier to talk about things like the garden, the weather, the cats and hubby's work. But like Alana... "we never talk about faith." Well that isn't entirely true... sometimes things come up and we add a little emotion in to the mix, but that isn't a conversation. We don't share that part of our journeys with each other. I wish we could, one day, when it isn't so emotional.
I have a lot of respect for the honesty that Alana and Patricia shared their communication challenges. Maybe one day, I can sit down with this book again and learn again what it is like to set aside the differences and be "undivided".
"Dear Alana
... When folks worldwide are murdering each other, we are talking. When families from pillar to post are dogging and cursing and dissing each other, we are granting grace. I am grateful to God for that and grateful, indeed, for you.
You stayed with me until I could offer what you demanded of me. Respect. ...
Will we make mistakes? Of course. But now we know what to do. Get back on the road...
Thank you, sweetheart, for travelling along with me.
Peace and Love
Mom "
"Dear Mom
... Last, I know that deep down it is your hope that I see God as you do, just as many mothers - even I - hope for my children. I thank you for your honesty, and I hope that as we continue to be mother and daughter, we can grow in our understanding of how to allow each other to embrace our faiths without facing scrutiny and criticism from each other. ...
So pack your bags, Mom. We've got work to do, and the peace train never stops.
Love always, Alana
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