“Leora was not a good mother.”
“She was not a bad mother, either,” Father Mike places a rough skinned hand on top of mine. I stare at the reddish blond hairs on his muscular forearm. As always, he is wearing a black shirt and clerical collar, but short sleeved in celebration of our mild spring weather. Celebration, it seems, is so much a part of this man’s life. It has never been part of mine. Even birthdays, growing up, were not cause for celebration but for reflection on how close I was getting to becoming employable.
Father Mike continues to warm my hand with his own as he brings my darting eyes to stillness with his piercing gaze.
“Dee. You have a litany of grievances against your mother. You tick them off religiously like telling the beads, but it brings you no peace.
“Dee. Ask your question.”
“What do you mean? What question?”
“Let’s assume there is a God. What is the one question you would like to ask Him?
“Why did my mother...” he stops me right there.
“Not a question about your mother, a question about you.”
I think about that for a minute. What is it I really want to know? Then it comes to me.
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