|
Column Dinner dispute yields clues to Gods will
By KRIS BERGGREN
I learned a thing or two on my summer vacation to the Seattle
area. I learned I probably could have gotten away with riding ferry boats back
and forth through Puget Sound all week instead of shelling out a weeks
worth of grocery money for a two-hour kayak trip during which one child fell
asleep not 20 yards into the water, one got seasick and one literally rocked
the boat.
Kids are simple. Their favorite things? No, not a three-hour beach
walk at low tide on a deliciously foggy stretch of the wild Pacific coast just
south of the northernmost point in the lower 48 states. Not the breathtaking
view of Mount Olympus from Hurricane Ridge in Olympic National Park, no, nor
the majesty of hikes through ancient growth forests with 500-year-old hemlocks
and Douglas firs towering overhead. My kids seemed to prefer the 4H cat show at
the Skagit County Fair.
We all hope for family vacations that will yield Kodak moments to
share proudly with our friends when we get home. More often, we return to swap
anecdotes about what a friend of my husbands wryly calls working
vacations, or family visits during which we try to be on our best
behavior while negotiating the often murky waters of sibling, parent, in-law,
and blended family relationships.
One night, at my fathers house, at a dinner table already
laden with tension over food choices, issues of meal preparation and serving
style, the other shoe dropped when my dads wife attempted to discipline
my 6-year-old for playing with her food. Her words were something to the effect
of, God is gonna getcha for that. Thinking she was doing me a favor
by correcting my daughters behavior, she invoked an angry, judgmental God
to shame my daughter into polite manners.
This old-school, verbal slap on the wrist did not sit well with
me. My mother bear intuition told me to stand up for my
daughters nascent friendship with God over the appearance of civility at
the dinner table. I told my daughter God would most certainly not punish her
for playing with her bread crusts. She rebutted with a comment
about the hungry children in Developing Nation of Your Choice. My dad jumped in
to implore us not to turn the discussion political. My husband backed me up. My
daughter started to cry.
Thud.
In the ensuing discussion we clumsily touched on our real
differences of opinion about issues of child-rearing, God, and even our
Catholic-ness. The incident opened the floodgates of every past
perceived infraction Id ever overlooked for harmonys sake. And a
light bulb finally clicked: I still feel angry at losing my mother. If she were
still alive, I think petulantly, none of this would be happening.
Maybe its all the water surrounding us up there in the
Pacific Northwest, but I was reminded of an image described to me some years
ago. Imagine, someone said, Peter, James and John out in their small boat on
the day that they despaired they would not catch any fish. Jesus told them to
cast their nets once more, so they did, subsequently hauling in nets straining
with fat fish -- an image of bounty and good fortune for those who trust in
God. Okay. But imagine, said the speaker, how slimy, heavy, and smelly those
nets full of fish would really be, how difficult to handle, how the weight of
that incredible catch would rock the boat.
The most disturbing aspect of the dinner table scene and its
aftermath is that I almost relished the self-righteous belief that I stood on
the moral high ground. When I examined my conscience, I discovered myself
resisting reconciliation and forgiveness, indeed, even nurturing my resentment
by reading into every subsequent remark and gesture.
Many miles and days away, back home, I finally begin to let
go and let God. My ego settles back down for now, creating a space for
the voice of wisdom to be heard. It says, OK, maybe you are right. So
what? This inner voice whispers, Yield. I hold out the olive
branch the best way I know how, by writing a note of apology, highlighting what
we have in common -- that we love the same man, my father and her husband.
God is present in the sea keeping our little boats afloat. God is
present even when we doubt ourselves and each other, even in the midst of the
most painful conflict. I cast my net out in stormy waters and hauled in
resentment, anger, old hurts. God was encouraging me to cast out once more to
see if I couldnt haul in the riches of forgiveness, peace, agape. I may
not have brought home an album full of picture-perfect memories, but I
didnt leave empty-handed after all.
Kris Berggren lives in Minneapolis.
National Catholic Reporter, September 18,
1998
|
|