“I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we’re reading doesn’t wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we reading it for? …we need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us. That is my belief.”
- Franz Kafka
My heart squeezes tightly almost making me ill when I look at this picture of my parents. It's not a flattering image of them. Dad, then in his 90s had grown slow, his edema swollen slippered feet shuffled from bed to desk to dining table. His heart balking at the slightest exertion; blood flowing like thick molasses so he was always cold, so on warm days he'd sit outside and soak up the warmth. Mum, still strong but often weary.
I remember when I was in Toronto I would give money to every panhandler, busker and street bum. I would allow my windshield to be wiped at red lights and smile and tip them well. I once paid a young man asking for a smoke $10 to collect cigarette butts for me for an art project I had in mind.
I befriended a number of regular buskers on metro stations to and from work. Benny was from Mexico and always wore a hat. He sang Spanish songs and accompanied himself on a guitar. Oh, he made me so homesick for New Mexico. Mel was from Nova Scotia and wrote his own songs. Sam usually played late. I loved the jazz melodies he played on his saxophone. He said he had played for some of the greats in New Orleans back in the day. I bought their CDs. Brian was a great crooner. His voice would greet us as we came up the escalator from the bottom platform at the Sherbourne Station where I got off. I treated him to lunch one day. Another time we went to the Ex together. And once he cooked dinner for me in his very modest apartment. I ate the potatoes as the other dish was non-veg.
I was lonely and restless and found that individuals on the outskirts of society were least likely to be judgmental and accepted me for who I was at that moment in time.
The vision of Raphael would fill my eyes and I hoped someone somewhere was kind and generous to him as he roamed and wandered the streets of whatever town he was in for I never knew from day to day or from week to week where he was or where he rested his head.
When I joined him two years later, he was sleeping on the floor in an apartment he was renting. His night stand was made of FedEx boxes.
Now we live a normal life. We have furniture and linen in the closet. Dishes for everyday and for special occasions, but there is nothing to write about.
For many years I was deeply wounded that my parents didn’t give me any emotional support when I decided to leave my first husband. At a time when I needed desperately to be affirmed for who I was--an adult woman who was best situated to make decisions for myself, dad appeared patronizing in his treatment of me, believing I had made a mistake in leaving my marriage because they were for reasons other than the ones approved by the Church.
“He’s not chasing other women, not beating you,” dad said implying that other reasons should be worked out.
I felt like a child being reprimanded for making a bad decision, when in fact, I had been married for 22 years, had held various responsible positions in Church employment, and had raised two children.
On another occasion dad bemoaned the fact that all his sisters’ children, who were not even Christians, had stable marriages while two of his children’s marriages had failed. It seemed to me he though it a poor reflection on his public image.
He did not approve of my relationship with my second husband to be. In an email to me he asserted that our relationship was guaranteed to be a failure because it was not founded on Jesus and Christian principles.
Perhaps feeling conflicted Mum showed two different sides. She was united with dad in disapproving of my decision; however, she once repeated to me in a conspiratorial way a remark made to her by one of my girlfriends who was happy for me, “Lorna is so lucky.” I felt that mum was trying to convey at some level that she sympathized with me. However, in 20 years she has not once tried to have a conversation with me about it.
My oldest brother was openly supportive of me, but he had already been through a divorce and had left the church. I didn’t feel any judgment from my other two brothers, they were supportive but mostly silent. My sister was straightforward in expressing her disapproval. As Christmas approached, she regretted that she could not send a card addressed to my partner and me as we were cohabiting. Ironically, that same Christmas we received a card from mum addressed to both Raphael and me.
Another time, my sister said as long as my partner and I were not married, she could not visit us as that would indicate she condoned our behavior while clearly she did not. She likened it to viewing an object she knew was stolen—that it would somehow implicate her.
Realizing that it was an error to expect my parents (and others) to behave in a way I wished or expected, allowed me to stop pining for the affirmation I wanted, to love and accept them on their own terms, and to heal from the hurt of rejection. I have a better understanding of why some could not accept my decisions, perhaps believing that supporting me might betray their convictions. In the same way that I wish to be true to myself, each one must also have that right.
I have concluded that religion was the reason that prevented some of my family from being loving and supportive of me. That some Christians (rightly or wrongly) confuse "accepting" with "condoning;” that the admonishment to “call sin by its right name” does not serve Christians well as it gives a reason to be judgmental and creates obstacles to accepting and loving someone else whose lifestyle does not match their own.
The SDA Church’s position on divorce is archaic and demonstrates neither understanding nor compassion--and which is my primary reason for leaving the Church. It denies individuals the right to seek relationships that are meaningful and loving.
The choices I made for myself had a ripple effect which touched other lives and I regret the hurt it caused. And while the events I write about are in the past, I look to the day when we will be able to love each other freely—without judgment, without feeling guilty that we might be condoning another’s choice or lifestyle, and without fear we might be implicated by association.
I share my experience: wishing it helps someone else in the family; believing that talking about things builds deeper understanding and closer bonds; and hoping that were someone else to go through a failed marriage, family will be the first to embrace and uphold that individual.
Joy and I are lying next to each other in what appears to be two long rows of a field bed. Perhaps it’s just a vast hall with people sleeping on the floor. He and I have staked out spots next to each other intentionally hoping to get a few cheap thrills surreptitiously. Outside it is night and the room is darkened. Margaret B lies on the other side of him. I know Joy’s wife, Lulu, is also sleeping somewhere in the hall but in a spot unknown to me.
The next day it is Joy’s day as he is demonstrating how to make a dessert tart. The biggest tart pan I have ever seen is on the floor. It must be 10-12 feet in diameter and reminds me of the biggest enchilada festival Raphael and I attended once in Las Cruces. Helpers are putting in the layer of crust into the pan. There are ample folds hanging over the edge that looks like frills on a dress cut on the bias. It is beautiful and impressive.
However, when we sit down to eat at a long table such as the victorious feast of the saints in heaven as illustrated by Harry Anderson in the Children’s Bible Story by Arthur Maxwell, a set we had at home as children, the dish being served is not a tart but matzo ball soup. I am somewhat surprised and a little disappointed but before I even have a chance to sample it, I can hear exclamations of approval from others around me. With my spoon I cut into the good sized ball in my bowl and find it is not dense but light and airy. I turn to Joy and enquire, “Did you use leavening?” His response is in the affirmative and I’m not impressed because any home cook can get it light by using leavening. It is delicious though, I admit.
Later in the day, Joy and I have a quiet moment together and he says in a confidential voice, “What shall we do about last night?” He probably noticed the puzzled look on my face and continues, “Maggie, knows. She noticed us bump into each other during the night too many times to be ‘accidental.’” I frown at this unhappy turn of events. I don’t want Lulu to be hurt by our careless flirtation which really means nothing to either of us.
The next evening I intend to try to get Joy off the hook by taking a walk with Manoj and Mohan but really it’s Paul, Mohan’s younger brother. I link my arm through Paul’s nonchalantly so the world can see I don’t mean any harm by my friendliness, I’m just bindaas. But as the three of us walk together on the grounds of the conference in the darkening evening, Paul puts his hand on my thigh and squeezes gently in a sexual way. This act definitely catches me off guard though I’m far from being repulsed and smile to myself as I realize the joke’s on me.
