On Prayer

I used to think that my mom was a direct conduit to God. Even now, though her super powers are somewhat reduced in my adult eyes, I think she has a more direct pathway to the Divine than the average person. I remember being little and sobbing about some five year old ache, her answer to my childish problem being “Well, you should pray about it” to which I replied, “No mommy, YOU do it. Jesus listens to you better.” Perhaps seeing her prayers answered and being somewhat dubious as to my own spiritual path, I started assigning my concerns to her as I aged, figuring that God must listen to her with greater concentration because of her German accent. You just don’t mess with that.

In my adult years, I’ve embraced a different spirituality that is somewhat removed from my mothers Calvinistic Christianity. I’ll only mention that my mother lost hope for my soul years ago and once in a while, when I’m on a tirade or mentioning sex in her presence, she’ll lay her hand on my arm and say, gently “I’m praying for you” which I appreciate, because I know her daily conversations with God are fruitful and I think it keeps her sharp to have what she would call a “difficult” child. I do what I can to keep her out of the rest home.

So the other day, we were at dinner in San Francisco and Gavin Newsom walked into the restaurant. While I was struck by the greasiness of his hair (which is truly something to behold...does he not have a stylist to perhaps update that?) my mother immediately went into a stage whispered rant about how she disagrees with his politics and threatened to go over there and give him a piece of her mind. While my father frantically waved for the check, hoping to usher my mother out before a scene erupted, I reminded her that she didn’t vote in San Francisco, therefore not counting as one of his constituents, ergo he might not really give a hoot.

This stopped her for a moment. Long enough for my dad to pay and for us to start moving towards the door.

We thought we were in the clear and were sort of bear hugging my mother as we left in the hopes that she wouldn’t get a word in edgewise before we made it outside and to relative safety. We failed. She’s only 5’3, but managed to reach around and past my 5’8 frame and holler out “I’M PRAYING ABOUT YOU!” to Mr. Newsom, whom I’m hoping didn’t hear…

…but in case he did, he should know that he is totally, TOTALLY screwed. My mom gets it DONE with the Big Guy. You see I have a suspicion even God knows she’s not worth arguing with.