One Thanksgiving my mother hid a reel-to-reel tape recorder in the dining room closet and made us kids promise to keep it a secret. The room was a mess of toys any other day but had been tidied and decorated for the feast. The table we used for art projects was extended and covered with a white linen tablecloth and crowned with Mom’s centerpiece of fruit and nuts. The brass candle sticks were polished and gleaming.
As we all sat around the table, and before Dad carved the turkey, Granny stood, closed her eyes, inhaled through flared nostrils, raised her chin, then launched into her traditional, impromptu grace: “Dear mighty, all-powerful, merciful God, You set before us this beautiful turkey that we poor, frail, imperfect creatures will enjoy through Your grace and goodness. May we be truly kind and good to one another, rather than the wretches we tend to be, and may we…” On and on she went until Mom was snorting with laughter. My older brother, sister, and I chimed in.
Granny opened her eyes and stared at us, unsmiling. “Why are you all laughing?”
Mom was good at playing games, and even though this one felt a little mean, I thought Granny would be amused.
Mom slid open the closet door to reveal the spinning tape recorder. She quickly rewound it and replayed Granny’s prayer while the four of us giggled without restraint. My two aunts and one uncle, my father and grandpa remained silent. I liked Granny’s prayers, but Mom was good at playing games, and even though this one felt a little mean, I thought Granny would be amused.
Instead, she stiffened and straightened her shoulders. “That was cruel, Penelope!” I had never seen her so angry. And then she looked at me with injured eyes, and said, “And I thought you were my little darling.”
I wanted to crawl under the table and never come out.
“It was just a joke, Mother,” Mom said, but the hurt buzzed in the air as we passed our plates in silence.
I’d been blind to the truth ever since that day
For years I blamed my mother for the pain and shame I felt in that moment. It wasn’t until I shared that story with a friend and mentor that I saw another truth I’d been blind to ever since that day over sixty years ago.
“What a heavy burden to place on a child,” my friend said, speaking of my grandmother. “Imagine the kinds of things she must have said to your mother as a child.”
I’d never considered that story from that perspective. I’d always blamed my mom for being cruel and sucking me into it. Goodness, yes, I’ve known Granny was a difficult mom, very judgmental, but only intellectually considered the matter. I’d never felt the scalding hurt because that day I immediately transferred the blame to my mom.
I was a difficult teen, to be sure.
This new perspective, that Granny had placed an undue burden on me, a little girl of seven, made room in my heart to feel compassion for my mother. How conveniently have I forgotten over the years that Granny’s advice to Mom when I was an unruly teenager was that she should let me leave home at age fifteen. That I would in all likelihood leave anyway, so why not with her permission? How I wish I could have eaves dropped on that conversation. How exactly did it go?
Poor Mom. I was a difficult teen, to be sure. She had no tools to deal with me. And wasn’t mentally healthy herself. Hadn’t I been just as clueless about how to deal with my teenage son? Not that he left home, or threatened to at age fifteen, but that I let him entertain girls in his bedroom, insisting that he keep his bedroom door open, but gave up when he kept closing it. That’s on me.
My prayer this day is that I let go of all resentment towards my mom. Yes, she was and is a narcissist, but she was likely raised by one. Granny is long dead; my mother soon will be. May she die with my having full compassion for her, and may I be forgiven for all the resentment I’ve held towards her.
She wouldn’t understand if I tried to say these words, written or in person, so I hope God conveys them to her for me, and that somehow the message gets through, and that she may die, and soon, with a little more peace in her heart.
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