The Voice

I hate the mother attending the service. I gifted her a leaflet before as I cried in my head. She claims to walk with Jesus Christ. She hugged me before as I absorbed her shame and heartache. Mum refuses to tell me what this lady said, the monster I used to call my other mother. The service commences.

The church hall lives. Seven days of seven years of seven minutes. Go Tell It On The Mountain, I hear another voice folded in the eaves. Shoulders breathe as chords in my neck release. I face the warmth of the room, the people I gifted at the door. I wear a memory, my navy blue purple flowers of uncertain shade. I address the service with Psalm 23 for the first time. I sense the vocals in the eaves notices me.

Everyone scheduled to speak mourns, but I promise instead, “Nan, I inherit your love of history and faith as I search for answers we’ve extensively discussed. You claimed we couldn’t change the world, but you changed mine.” The voice claps.

Others thank me, “You spoke well,” as the voice hovers above us. 

I forgive my other mother whilst I meet the voiceless.

Reflections

We're complex people. Complex. People. I'm also an open book. Blank, but not the same.

We're not automatons or ideologically transparent as I honour my grandmother (Nan) on her first post-humous birthday in her resurrection. Simultaneously, I have a track record with feelings I have surrounding 'surrogate' mothers and fathers. I meet multiple faiths on the daily and they keep to themselves mostly and I find this to be the most insulting act of intelligence. Only intelligent people are quiet or extremely loud in strategy, but this may be conjecture as I reflexively assume others based on how I work and less about how other people conduct themselves. We're complex people. That's why I'm Christian.

Christ offers me a cross I bear to live a life of risk as I dare to listen to those who are more extreme than I am. I'm there only to accept their words, not unpack them further. Sometimes the best answer to share is understanding through God that we don't need to. Now I understand Mum's, "A chair can just be a chair," statement more than I used to.

Nan and I loved to drink tea together. She'd discuss dirty laundry, I'd engage with her on the sexual dimorphism of the female spotted hyena. I learned to love someone I thought I hated. Through Nan I learnt love is complex and exceedingly lenient as I learnt to accept someone on faith to listen with them. That's how she changed my life through her belief in Jesus Christ.

Peace be with you Nan.