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Encounter

Joanne Flath

No one else was in the laundromat. As my last washer was finishing its cycle, I searched my mind for the right words. For five days I’d been visiting my mother. Something she was doing disturbed me, and I needed time alone to decide what to say to her.

Mom had baked her “famous” cinnamon buns for breakfast. Putting three on a plate to take to another resident in her high-rise, she had said, “Sally brought me three bran muffins on this plate Monday. I’ve got to take her something back.”

I wondered if Mom, always a generous person, had ever learned to be a gracious receiver. Her paying back was getting to be too much for her. How could I tell my mother simply to enjoy others’ generosity? I did not want to criticize the lady who had moulded my Christian faith.

As my washer clicked off, somebody behind me said, “Hi!” Startled, I dropped my wet laundry on the floor. The woman reached down to help me pick it up. In her 50s, she looked fashionable, with graying, short hair and a royal blue jogging outfit. She looked at me quizzically. “You’re new around here, aren’t you?”

“I’m visiting my mother.”

She pulled slacks from a laundry bag. “This isn’t my usual wash day,” she said. “I need these clothes for our church picnic today.”

“I’m doing my own stuff, plus some of my mom’s,” I explained.

“My mother is 82.” Her voice took on an edge of bitterness. “I wouldn’t do that for her – not after what she did to me!”

“It must have been something terrible.”

She nodded. “I was the oldest of four girls. Mother ordered me around like a slave. Wash this. Clean this. Cook this. I even did farm chores! If I’d had time to study, I would have been a doctor. I told my mother I wanted to be a doctor. I can still hear her say, ’You, a doctor? You’re too dumb!’ "

“Did you have high grades?” I asked.

“Not the way I worked. I was doing chores when I wanted to study. She did that to me – kept me from studying! Each day that I live I regret that I’m not a doctor. It’s her fault. I married a miner at 18 just to get off the farm and away from her. He’s been dead five years. Finally, I have freedom.”

“What sort of freedom?” I asked.

“I can do what I want. I’m a nurse’s aide in the hospital. I love it... even the smells. But mostly I love being near the doctors.” She rushed on resentfully: “But I should have been one of them.”

She sat in a chair and brooded. I sat next to her and resumed our conversation, deliberately changing the subject. “Tell me about your picnic.”

Her face lit up. “They want me to umpire again.” As she bent her arm, her muscle bulged.

“You sure are athletic.”

“You better believe it. Four years ago, I broke my leg skiing. I was bored out of my mind. Guess what 1 did? Took an art course. I found out I can draw. I do portraits. They look just like the people themselves.”

“How wonderful!”

Her brow wrinkled. “But I can’t draw my mother. I left her blank on my family’s portrait.”

“What did your teacher say about that?”

“He told me it wasn’t healthy. What does he know?”

“Where is your mother?”

“A hundred miles away.”

I was stunned. “And you haven’t cleared this matter with her?”

“What’s to clear?” she said scornfully.

“The bitterness you carry around,” I blurted.

My last dryer stopped. As I pulled out my mother’s blankets, I prayed, “Lord what are You doing? If You want me to talk to this lady, guide me in what to say to her. What does she need to hear?”

I paused and then said, “You’re going on a church picnic today. You go to church then?”

“Of course. Every Sunday.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard many words the preacher has said, but have you heard the good news?”

“What good news?”

“The good news that we can get rid of the hurts, the resentments we feel, the garbage in our life.”

“What do you mean?”

“Jesus paid the price of all the hurts we cause each other, and all we need to do is lay them at His feet. He takes care of them all. It’s like getting rid of all our garbage.”

“What do you mean by garbage?” she huffed.

“Hate of your mother.” I surprised myself with these words.

“It’s her fault,” she insisted.

“That’s for God to decide. Look at what your resentment has done to you.”

She stared at me. "’To me? That’s stupid.”

“Do you talk to your mother?” I asked.

“No.”

“Can you paint your mother’s face?”

“No!” she shouted. She glared at me.

Feeling helpless to communicate with her, I turned away. Suddenly I had an inspiration. I turned back to her “You’re lucky. Do you know that?”

She stared at me. “Why?”

“You can name your garbage.”

She nodded. " Yes, I can. I hate my mother for what she did to me.”

I paused. “Because you can name your garbage, you can let it go.”

“What do you mean?”

“Does it help to blame your mother?”

“Not anymore,” she sighed. “What difference does it make now?”

“A lot, I said. “Take charge of what’s left of your life. Don’t let resentments control you.”

“What about my mother?” she asked.

“God has to deal with your mother for her stuff. You’ve got to deal with God for your stuff. Maybe you can talk to someone who could help you get rid of that hatred.”

She turned away, then back again and said, “Maybe I should talk to my pastor. He’ll be at the picnic. Thank you.” She impulsively took my hand.

As I walked to the car, I murmured, “Thank You, Lord, for giving me the words.”

As I put the clothes in the trunk, I could see the complete picture with my mother too. I had my own garbage to clear. I continued my prayer: “Forgive me, Lord, for being so anxious about my mother that I can’t even enjoy her generosity without wanting to protect her. She’ll know better than I when it’s time to take it easy.

Joanne Flath lives in St. Albert, AB.

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Last modified August 31, 2000.

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