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All around me in my childhood were nothing but weak and
inhibited women. Everywhere you looked in my hometown in the Middle
East, it was the same story. There was always a weak woman trotting
behind a strong and fierce looking man. Sadly, this even applied to my
own mother. I adored her—she was nothing but love—but I also hated her
weakness. She couldn't stand up for us when our father beat us. Often we
stood up to him to protect her, but it never stopped us getting it also.
We used to beg her to leave him, but in the same breath we knew he was
our meal ticket—she would never have been able to support us in that
country. Her weakness made me treat her harshly, as less than worthy to
be my mother.
My sister and I used to daydream that one day we would find out that
we were adopted. Our real parents would be a strong mother and a gentle
father. Alas, there was no chance of that. We were the spitting image of
our mother, and we sure had our father's strong personality—with plenty
of oomph!
He consented to my leaving
home to study overseas.
We also dreamt about the day we
could leave our hometown and go west. My father was favorably impressed
with the Christian missionaries he met, so he thought a Christian
country would be filled with people just like them. He consented to my
leaving home to study overseas. Little did he know what would happen
when my feet hit the streets in London.
Boy, did I live it up!
I was learning fast to be an emancipated woman. No more weak, feeble
women for me, thank you! But after the novelty wore off, the wounds that
had been bleeding deep down in my subconscious cried out for healing.
I searched for God everywhere—in books, churches, spirituality
centers, convents—you name it, I looked into it.
Then I learned about another woman. She too was born weak. She was a
victim of her circumstances, region and time period. She was in an even
worse situation than I was. She was brought up in a regimented
household, and her health and the mores of her time kept her from
pursuing a formal education. She was weak and sickly all the time. She
was pregnant when her beloved husband died, and she was stranded far
from home with no money or property, with few rights and fewer
opportunities to survive on her own.
This woman was Mary Baker Eddy. My! how her story wrenched my heart.
But her story took an amazing turn. Deeply spiritual, she went on to
discover the deep truth of the Bible, and developed a system of
spiritual healing that became a worldwide movement. She wrote a book
that changed millions of lives—Science and Health with Key to the
Scriptures.
This book changed my life
also.
This book changed my life also. Reading it was the
end of my search, but the beginning of my spiritual journey.
You know, I said earlier that I had wished I were adopted? Well, I
learned that God had been my Mother all the time. I read in Eddy's book
this definition: "MOTHER. God; divine and eternal Principle; Life,
Truth, and Love." I cried and laughed, all at the same time. This was my
breakthrough! With God as my Mother, what couldn't I have that I didn't
inherit from my Mother already?
I looked around me and began to see potential in the very women I had
despised. I didn't see them as weak any more. I raised my own self-image
up a notch toward the full image of my Mother God. I saw I had the
ability right within myself to tap into this divine energy I embodied.
And, from that time, I saw the real strength my mother had. I saw
that it was her love for us that had made her meek so that we could be
cared for. Though she had no education and couldn't have provided for
us, she knew my father would see to it that we got somewhere. I suddenly
saw the gentleness of God's love had never stopped being expressed to us
through my mother.
Now for the first time in my
life I respected her.
I had always adored her, but now for the first
time in my life I respected her. I saw God was her Mother, too, and she
had access to the same strength and gusto I did. When I spoke to her on
the phone or when she came to visit, I started speaking to her
differently also. I wasn't treating her with disdain, but with respect.
It turned out she had always been scared of me. When I found this
out, I realised she hadn't only been abused by her husband, but also by
me her daughter. How humbling this discovery was. In repentance, I
resolved never to treat her that way again.
As I changed my attitude towards my mother, she changed as well. She
gained the confidence to stand up to my father and to make decisions for
herself. She doesn't speak or read much English, but she, too, reads
Science and Health. Mary Baker Eddy's life touched my mother's also
and made a difference to her.
Now relocated to New York City to be near my sister, my mother walks
all over town and takes herself to exercise and art classes. It may seem
simple, but she never would have done things like this before. Now, when
I visit her, she takes my hand like a strong woman and shows me sights I
would never have found on my own. I look up to her with wonderment. Yes,
God is her Mother, too.
I now can see that God's mothering love has nothing to do with
outward appearances or manner. Love dwells in the soul. My mother's
inner strength was revealed by her gentle nature and tender heart. And
Mother God has taught me how to find my strength in gentleness. |
