Maternal vigilance

The inscription below this statue reads "Molly Stark, wife of General John Stark, mother of 11 chilren, homemaker, patriot, and defender of the household. Her love, courage, and self-reliance were common virtues among the many hearty women of frontier New England."

It goes on from there, but I didn't photograph the rest of the inscription: it was the mix of Molly's vigilance and tenderness that captured my interest. It reminds me of the words spoken at the end of the service every Sunday, when the priest asks for the blessing of "the Holy Spirit, who broods over creation like a mother over her children."

This morning I felt that brooding of the Spirit. I was remembering a conversation with my daughter last night, when I was complaining -- quite venomously, I think, looking back on it -- about a young person involved in my play who was spending way too much time flirting (with females WELL below the age of consent) and not enough time attending to his work.

That venom. Where does it come from? Why was I feeling so contemptuous? And where is the compassion in that? In fact, couldn't a case be made for contempt and compassion being complete opposites? Clearly I had not been practicing what I preach, and the fury I felt with myself for having been so self-righteous was perfectly captured by an image I found in my files of a young man in a play who was threatening to shoot himself.

But the Holy Spirit was there, brooding with me over my sins, and somehow, with the vigilance ("you need to examine this one") came a maternal tenderness -- "Look at it, learn what you need to learn. But don't shoot yourself over it." And then, during communion, our pianist played what sounded initially like a random composition but which eventually I realized was a series of riffs over the old Bob Dylan song: "I shall be released." And I was.

They say ev'ry man needs protection,
They say ev'ry man must fall.
Yet I swear I see my reflection
Some place so high above this wall.
I see my light come shining
From the west unto the east.
Any day now, any day now,
I shall be released.

Yes, the lessons we hear in church on Sunday usually include a reminder that "we have left undone those things which we ought to have done, and we have done those things which we ought not to have done." But the service ends, always, with that blessing, the message of hope, forgiveness and compassion which models, as a mother models for her children, the combination of protective vigilance and loving acceptance we need to develop, not just for ourselves, but for all those with whom we share this beautiful, fragile planet.