Truth is I need to pray to a Mother God sometimes… not a Father God. One who’ll understand without more explanation than I have the oomph to give. Which is really odd, in my case, as my Mother never understood and my father always did, but still the mythos of being gently Mothered must live in my longings… or maybe it’s because the cranky, stern, male God of my childhood Catholicism, bears no relation to my gentle, kindly father, so I don’t connect the two.
Whatever the genesis of this need, on the days when I’m feeling frail, vulnerable, and entirely too little for what life expects of me, I could really use a Mother’s love to see me through. Whatever is the cosmic equivalent of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a cup of cocoa by the fire… of a loving arm around my heart that says, “Don’t worry child, this, too, shall pass,” that’s what I’m after.
So after a lifetime of talking to God, I’ve been talking to the Goddess, lately. I don’t know exactly how it happened… perhaps, I needed a Mother’s ear and a Mother’s heart that could understand my own.
Dear Mother, will you be what I need today? I’ll pray. Strong enough to hold my problems at bay for just a little while? Kind enough to know that this lapse of courage is momentary and that I’m sometimes very brave. I think I’ll ask for understanding and acceptance. Of me. Just little me. Not the me I try to be and sometimes am, strong and capable of handling all the grown-up chores and chastenings. But the one with the uncertainties and fears… the one who does her best, but doesn’t always win, as heroines in books all seem to. I know I’m always bothering You, I’ll tell Her. Praying for the ones I love, asking your help for them a million times a day. But not today. Today I need to pray for me.
I don’t actually believe God has a gender, as S/He must embody all Beingness to be omnipotent, so I don’t think it will matter in the least if I try this new tack.
It’s just a bit easier to imagine She’ll get it, when I pray… understand the need beneath the words, as my woman friends do. She’ll “get” how hard I’m trying to do it all right and maybe She’ll lend a helping hand, the way women do when they know you’re on the ropes. The way they close ranks around your heart, send soup, and don’t deplete your strength by asking the wrong questions. Like the old joke about what would have happened if there’d been Three Wise Women on manger duty. They would have arrived on time because they’d asked directions, midwifed the delivery, cleaned the stable, made a casserole and brought diapers. Screw the Frankincense and Myrrh. That’s the kind of benevolent, remedial competency that could go a long way on a bad day.
I think a female God would also grok another thought that’s crept into my mind of late. I call it Accounts Receivable for Workers in the Vineyard. It goes like this, and it does not in the least intend to be irreverent or even cheeky: I was thinking of sending You a bill, dear God/Goddess, I would say. Now hear me out before You go hurling thunderbolts. I’m not being disrespectful. I signed up to do the Work, and I’m doing the best I can. Maybe not perfectly, but I’m doing my best here. Against the odds of everyday, in a world where life is hard and staying on the straight and narrow is a tough act, even on a good day. You see, dear Creator, there’s often just not enough money to go around: the mortgage, the college fund, food, transportation, even a little fun. To say nothing of 10% to tithe.
So here’s my thought:
I’ll do the work…
You pay the bills.
Let me know if You think that’s fair.
© Cathy Cash Spellman/The Wild Harp & Co. Inc 2011
Photo Credit- Dakota Cash