Mother of Mercy

A warm day today, with a warmer one predicted tomorrow. The airlessness in the house begins to press in on me around five or so--combined with the screams of the girls and the smells of supper. As we sang over dinner tonight, I felt jagged around the edges and none too relaxed.

And in the quiet that followed dinner, while Martin took the girls up to their bath and I scraped beans off the floor, I found a little room to think.

I've been thinking about Mother Theresa lately.

To millions her work still shines as the example of Christlike devotion. It brought her the Nobel Peace Prize and beatification by Pope John Paul. But once she began her work in India she never heard God's voice again. Nine years after she founded her mission in Calcutta she wrote, "What do I labour for? If there be no God -- there can be no soul -- if there is no Soul then Jesus -- You also are not true."

"Even the sisters around her had no idea of the length and the depth," Kolodiejchuk said.

. . . .

But while the faithful see her struggle as inspirational, some atheists are taking it as confirmation of their own rational doubts and proof that the faithless can display enormous benevolence.

"Of course nonbelievers all over the world display compassion," said Dan Barker of the Freedom From Religion Foundation. "She was forced to go through the motions and admitted her own hypocrisy."
--excerpt from ABC World News with Charles Gibson, August 24, 2007

I would like to see Mother Theresa's critics devote one hour of service to the poor the way Mother Theresa labored, and then maybe we'll give a minute to this pathetic, triumphant schlock.

In thinking about Mother Theresa and her choice to persevere in doing right and showing mercy, I realize how much I work for rewards, intrinsic (makes me feel good to think I am a good mother and a disciplined person) and for the quiet cup of tea, the chocolate, the Netflix at the end of the day. When my work goes unnoticed I make jolly well sure somebody notes it and verbally congratulates me.

I imagine all rewards stripped away and replaced with a ringing sort of emptiness. What would make me continue being tender and gentle with my children? I have a great deal of trouble tempering a stomach flu without impressing my notable suffering upon Martin and whomever will listen. I groan and measure my own misery deep inside, hoping for a quick end. When I am lonely, unless I am nursing self-pity, I look for a sure and swift way to stop my loneliness. When I am in pain I reach for Tylenol; when I am tired of the suffering of the world I flick off NPR and avoid CNN online. When my children are sick I pant for the hour they will be well. And I only work ceaselessly for those whom I love, and who love me in return.

So this news about Mother Theresa, these letters expressing her doubt and uncertainties--they take me from humility to a stunned silence. Sainthood undoubtedly will be granted. The kind of life Mother Theresa lived will be misunderstood by many, just as pain and suffering and compassion and mercy are misunderstood. I don't begin to grasp it all. I do know that Mother Theresa's letters do not raise doubts in me as to the existence of God; if anything, they are an overwhelming persuasion that God is real, beyond feeling or sentiment.