In The Name Of My Father Chapters: 7 & 8

Reflections…

Ailsa guiltily sipped on her chai latte, a poor alternative to the thick dark coffee she would have preferred and a feeble attempt to cut down on her caffeine consumption.

“Okay caffeine! You win,” she sighed, and wearily beckoned the waiter.

She was just downright miserable. She loved her mother, and could have cut her some slack, but what was she trying to say?

What an enigma she was! Still a very attractive woman, she had kept her looks, but had pulled back on any form of fashion, more like a modern-day nun than a woman not much over fifty, too strait-laced for her own good.

And then there was the question of her inability to detach. Why did she care about her father’s affairs? What he did, and how he conducted himself was really none of her business. She’d long closed the door on his life and yet her pursed lips at the mention of his name, were enough to fill Ailsa with morbid curiosity.

He had done well, so well that, as he would often say, every day was payday to him. His business was where he’d found himself. ‘Now I can act my wage!’ he would proudly state when, after much research, he had bought something bargain priced, a piece that one day would reward, not him, but the as-yet-to-be-unrecognized artist!

He knew how to spend money wisely and he loved the art of doing so. Bargaining was one of his finest skills, an ability he could put into practice without compromising the integrity, or the livelihood, of the seller.

But his secret was that he also knew where and when to invest. Occasionally it was pure intuition, but more often supported and backed by sound research, and that was what had allowed him to make money easily, but fairly.

However, in the last ten years, things had changed and now, impressive artifacts had become his consuming passion. In an increasingly virtual world, beautifully-crafted art works he believed, should be protected and preserved at all costs. His was no longer about building wealth, and everything to do with altruism, when the time was right.

His intention, was to return them one day, to their rightful owners, when their value was truly appreciated, and in the interim, he would look after them. Better that than some less scrupulous individuals on-selling them for the mind-blowing figures he believed they were worth.

Still, Ailsa worried about him. Night after night, would see him trawling through the internet, either reading about works, plowing through facts and cross-checking as to their rarity, or their special artistic features. The purchasing alone was an art form that he delighted in, a stylish exchange between him and his dealers, so that now he was a much-respected figure in the industry.

It had become his obsession, a frenetic pursuit of things either of beauty or historical significance, demanding absolute diligence!

Yet the cornerstone was one of pure benevolence.

Starting out cautiously at first, his acquisitions were meticulously stored in his garage where they were catalogued with care. Each item was wrapped with the dedication of a curator charged with the preservation of a Mona Lisa or Venus de Milo. The smallest ones were housed in specially-designed tubs that he’d had crafted to protect them.

But gradually, as shelves groaned under the weight of his purchases, and his car began to struggle for parking space, his acquisitions were transported to a spare bedroom, then another room, into the wardrobes, under the beds, in drawers, just in any spot he could find to keep his treasures. The hallway was the last place to cave under the weight and intensity of his fervor.

It was clear that he failed to see the sign, the signal that it was time to stop. Unable to resist, he had inadvertently become a prisoner in his own home. His was an addiction that, to the untrained eye, served no real purpose.

Despite this he was still super generous with Ailsa, not the kind of generosity that spoils a daughter and makes her dependent. That would never have been his way. But somehow he just sensed if things were a bit tough for her, or that she needed a few extra dollars to take a holiday, and in the blink of an eye, the money would be in her account. No amount of protesting from Ailsa could make him take it back.

And that was the thing that puzzled her. How could two parents be so diametrically opposed? Was it possible that two humans with such a dichotomy in their thinking and lifestyles could ever have happily cohabited?

Why they’d ever married was beyond speculation.

Ever scrimping and scraping, her mother would quote, the quickest way to double your money is to fold it over and put it back in your pocket…not stingy as such, but certainly ultra-cautious.

But what was even more worrying was that, unlike her father, her mother seemed unable to demonstrate, or share, love, almost as if the very notion of tenderness scared her, or that it was something unattainable.

This left Ailsa scratching her head at times, for her mother wasn’t the only person to have suffered. Heaven knows, separations and divorces are ten a penny these days, and yet you don’t see too many people walking around struggling under the weight of the chips on their shoulders.

Sure there is always pain when things go belly up, but then the other side of the coin flips over and many come to realize that what they first saw as breakdowns, are, in fact, breakthroughs! Light, and a huge sense of relief comes when the scab of failure has healed, and renewal begins.

Not every relationship is salvageable. But even many of those whose break ups are permanent are not so utterly damaged that they can’t claw back, embrace a new normality, and open their hearts to future happiness. Sure, caution is exercised, for that is the by-product of a bad experience, but learning from past mistakes allows us to move on, open to opportunity.

But not Helen! Not her mother. It seemed that it just wasn’t in her to forgive or forget. Ailsa was convinced that her father could and would have made up for his initial mistake, given half a chance, but it was her mother who had put up the wall, she who had refused to have a discussion, she alone who, cloistered in her anger, was determined never to compromise, even for the sake of family.

Being prepared to fix cracks, to make some improvements on how things once were, is possible. Rebuilding implies intention to create something that might even surpass what you once had, or what your dreaming might have been, for the contrary is unattractive.

When the chips are down, and your anger is the wall that determinedly stunts healing, the fragments of misery are almost impossible to repair.

Divorce for her parents could have been good news. With a slate wiped clean they could have freed themselves for better opportunities. Except that they hadn’t formalized their split.

The paradox of this caused Ailsa to think about some of the special relationships she had enjoyed, the friendships that she hadn’t seen coming, those amazing relationships that had taken off so unexpectedly, and the roller coaster rides that had left her gasping for more. For a whole raft of reasons, none had lasted.

Over time she had come to accept that all relationships go through hell, yet it’s possible to emerge whole on the other side and with any luck, thrive. None of us escapes hurt, but time and determination heal if you allow it to happen. Ailsa concluded that relationships make you the person you become. Different as hers had been, all had shaped her in some way, made her shine with understanding and wisdom, and allowed her to move forward with grace.

She must have been doing something right!

How different was her mother! It was hard to imagine that she hadn’t managed to be bowled over at least one more time in her life, or that she’d left no room for someone to make her bad days better, her nights unimaginably beautiful, and their making ups, out of this world.

Was such a barren way of life worth living?

Her mother’s attitude reminded Ailsa of the old Cherokee Indian who explained to his grandson that a battle between two wolves raged inside each of us.

‘One wolf is anger, jealousy, greed, inferiority, resentment and lies. The other is goodness, joy, peace, love, hope, humility, kindness, empathy and truth.’

The boy considered what his grandfather had said and then he asked, ‘Grandad, which wolf wins?’

The wise old man answered, ‘The one you feed.’

It was time to stop feeding one of those wolves…permanently!

Alistair’s Loneliness Haunts Him

It had been a little over three months since Alistair’s arrival in town, a hectic time where he came to grips with parish life, but the meeting with Helen was undoubtedly the highlight. He’d had many girlfriends in his life, but none as naturally warm and unassuming as Helen. He missed friends more than he cared to admit, and he’d almost forgotten how it felt to be with an attractive woman.

What he wasn’t prepared for, was the fire that flared inside him whenever he allowed his mind to think of her. One chance meeting had simply emphasized his growing ache of loneliness and isolation.

Now he understood that reality almost always stares down the face of theoretical learning. They are two very different, very opposing beasts, but his youth and inexperience in training, had prevented him from distinguishing the two.

Reality for him now was moving in circles that were mostly of people not of his generation, some young enough to be his children, some as old as his parents, and others of his grandparents’ vintage.

Reality was preparing these same people for growing and maturing, or for dealing with family issues, and for some, preparing for their demise.

Reality was working with children, teaching them about how to behave well, and opening their eyes to the wonder of the everlasting love of God.

Reality was facing the knowledge that he would never teach his own children about God’s love. He would never hold them close and feel that overwhelming sense of amazement, he’d never teach them to kick a ball, to swim, to lie on their backs and consider the stars, to dream of futures yet to be revealed, and to be the best human beings imaginable.

Reality was that he would see his friends, his true friends, only on a very irregular basis. He had already dealt with this, or so he’d thought, but now it caused him to question a vocation that left him feeling emotionally stunted.

Reality was that pretty girls were very much out of reach.

Reality was that he still found them attractive.

“Where does that sit in the grand design?” he demanded of himself. In the whole scheme of things his life now seemed to be a plan of self-abuse rather than as a servant of God. A life without pleasure…a life alone…and he concluded that an ongoing longing for what is natural, yet forbidden, is hardly a part of human fulfillment.

In the seminary there had been collegial support, friends, people of his vintage that he had been able talk to, to openly discuss the delicate notion of celibacy, and they were able to buoy each other along on their collective tide of uncertainty.

Alistair concluded that there, amongst his peers, it had been so much easier. Sure, most admitted to struggling, and grappling even more with having to live alone as part of their vocation, but they were firm in the conviction that it was possible.

It was their calling after all, so in funny, jocular ways they supported and reassuringly laughed through their collective doubt, singularly determined to be people of God.

“Just damned fantasy!” Alistair reflected as he embraced his inordinate encounter with loneliness and a church hierarchy that suddenly seemed so distant.

Facing the truth of what a life spent doing God’s work demands, being honest and humble…and celibate, ergo, shunning relationships with women, is understandably so much easier with strong, young, and determined colleagues to lean on when necessary.

Now he realized that that same courage is often skin deep.

These nagging doubts became constant visitors, monsters in his dreaming. Tossing and turning, questioning his sanity, considering his ability to be strong, he was consequently and involuntarily flooded with anguish and despair.

And he shuddered when he thought about his future.

If meeting one attractive woman could find him questioning everything, how would he possibly find the strength to deal with the many other temptations that would surely come his way?

No one had prepared him for such a crisis.

No one could have!

On one occasion when he’d tossed and turned, and sleep eluded him, he rose. His heart ached, and his body cried out for companionship.

But there was no company.

There was no one to share with.

He realized he could look forward to future nights of sleep-deprivation, and long, lonely hours of soul-searching.

The very ugliness of it all found him reaching for the whisky bottle. One wouldn’t do any harm…just this once!

And it didn’t.

In a few minutes his mind relaxed and his heart stilled…just enough.

But then another drink became attractive, and that generous second led to an outpouring of grief. He recalled his father referring to drink as ‘the anaesthesia by which we endure life’s challenge’.

And he caved in to his sadness.

His grief was nothing to do with Helen, he assured himself, but yet she featured endlessly in his dawns and dusks, and he longed to catch up with her again, to share ideas, to hold her hand and more. Sadly he knew it could never be so, for he’d committed to his God.

Or had he?

Was fully surrendering himself to God a challenge that was too grand, too heavy a cross for him to bear? One thing he was certain of, and that was, that he couldn’t always use alcohol as compensation for his problems.

And so, he would have to live with his grief, ebbing and flowing, ebbing and flowing, and the best he could hope to do, was swim through his sadness.