20 – Praying To Change Me, Not To Change God

Eek, our employer has run out of money and so the job's finished and so has the free house that goes with it. So, we could be jobless and homeless by 3rd September. This is definitely a time for TRUST!!

And so I pray for many things – job, house, money, security, certainty, trust and for God to be here with me. I don’t pray to change God – I pray as it changes me.

And here’s the next instalment of Mary’s story, continued from yesterday …

"The self same lesson, lassie," said James, patting her hand. "You can't force folks to accept your way o' things. If they're not ready for change, you've got to be the one to change. Fair or not, that's just how the world works."

"So you think I should be nice and sweet and agreeable all the time, just to suit them?" asked Mary grimly.

James opened his mouth to speak when Isobel put her hand gently on Mary's and asked, "How many buns have you sold since you've been up here this time?"

"How many buns?" asked Mary.

"Yes dear, how many buns have you sold?" asked Isobel, smiling. "How many moments of true peace and happiness? How many moments of what you might call a breakthrough, a success, have you had?"

"Uh, none!" said Mary, grinning sheepishly. "I don't suppose I've sold a single bun!"

"And how many buns would you like to sell on this trip?" asked Isobel.
"Well, even one sale would be an improvement!" said Mary, sighing. "But why do I have to do all the work, all the bending and compromise?"

"Because you can, lass," said James. "Because you can. You're blessed with a little willingness to make a difference; they're not. They're happy in their misery and may never change. That's how my customers were ... still are. That's how your customers - family and everyone else you meet - are. Some will change , some will be as you'd like them to be but most are happy in their misery."

"But it's still unfair!" said Mary sitting back running her fingers through her hair.

"You sound just like a young baker I once had a chat with!" said Isobel. "Would you rather be them - happy in their misery, unwilling and unable to communicate effectively, frightened."

"Frightened" asked Mary.

"Yes, frightened. I was," said James. "Anger comes from unmet expectations - the world owes me this and I'm not getting it - and then there's fear in not being able to control the world. Yes, anyone who is angry is frightened."

"Oh, I hadn't thought about it like that," said Mary, sitting forward again. She looked at her watch. "Gosh, it's late and I'm keeping you from your dinner, aren't I?"

"Aye and you're welcome to join us," said Isobel. "But I suspect ye'll be wantin' to go home and sell a few buns."

Outside her parent's house she stopped and listened. The only sound was the television. She wondered if they ever really talked with each other and realised, sadly, that it may never change and that it wasn't her job to try and change it. She immediately felt lighter and skipped up the steps and into the kitchen for a glass of cordial.

"Why're ye looking so happy with yeself, lass?" asked he mother, without turning as she mashed potatoes.

"Not sure really," said Mary. "I guess I'm just happy to be home."

"You wouldn't be so happy if you had to do the work to feed another mouth, would ye!" said her mother gruffly.

"Would you like some help there, ma?" asked Mary.

"Aye no, I've done it on my own for all these years and I suppose I'll be doin' it this way till I die," said her mother, spooning mashed potato into a bowl.

Mary went through and watched television with the men, in silence, watching the thoughts going through her mind. Actually, there weren't many at all where, before, her mind would have been a whirl of anxiety, trying to anticipate problems and solve them before they happened.

Dinner was held in silence, upon laps in front of television. Mary actually enjoyed the silence and the company - she needed nothing of anyone. They continued their silent dance while they each got themselves dessert and then cups of tea and Mary began to see the comedy of it all - three people in one house, doing practical things around each other and actually living in their own separate worlds. She had as much companionship living on her own!

Eventually, the television was turned off and her father, getting up from his chair, said, "Aye, Mary, this London may be a wondrous place but I ken you're needing to come back home, time to time, for a dose of sanity!"

Mary detected a wee smile and appreciated that she had, at last, been acknowledged. And, maybe, in his own way, he was seeing the insanity of his household but had not the skills to make it sane. Maybe.

Angus, who now felt he had permission to address his sister, said, "Aye Mary, it is grand to see ye lass. Will ye be stayin' a few days?"

"Yes, a few days," said Mary. "Do you want me to bring your lunch down to your work, tomorrow?"

"Och aye ... ah ... I suppose," said Angus, caught between gratitude and embarrassment of having his sister at work. "Aye, I suppose you could if you wanted to."

'Whoopee!' thought Mary. 'I've passed the first test - being allowed into the men's domain. I think I've sold two buns tonight ... well, one and a half anyway.' As the men left she stood up and bumped into her mother and then realised her mother had come over to hug her. 'This is a first,' thought Mary, uncertainly. But she wasn't going to miss the moment. She hugged her mother back, easing into it gently, softly. It felt so warm and good. Then she heard her mother sniffing over her shoulder. Her mother pulled back and retrieved a handkerchief from her sleeve.

"Aye it's a chill place, this. I have a wee sniffle," her mother said. "Aye lass, I ... ah ... you used to push us away all the time but yer ... ah ... nicer this time." Her mother fled and Mary dabbed at her own tears and smiled dreamily.

'Whew!' she thought. 'Maybe I've sold three buns tonight. A world record in the Collins household!'

She sat back down while the others shuffled around upstairs, going to bed, and wondered if everyone was so lonely, so separate, as those in her family ... as so many people she'd met. As she pondered while the upstairs became quiet, a deep peace overcame her and she had the strong impression, somehow, of everyone in the world, desperate to feel connected, desperate not to feel alone but not knowing how to ... in fact, most not believing that they could ever feel connected and at one with anyone else. A sadness came to her and she realised that's how she'd felt all her life - alone, separate and yet yearning for the opposite - to be connected with someone, something, anything ... but knowing that it was never possible. And, as that thought of separation became more personal, more about her, she realised that she could feel connected - did feel connected, even just a little, to her family when she'd stopped grasping for it. The years of isolation, feeling like she was different, didn't belong ... all of it washed past her as debris in a swollen river. She watched the dirty water and broken logs of her discontentment flood past and the raging river eventually slowed to become a gentle brook - clear, sparkling and alive. Yes, so alive and content with itself. She had a clear sense, somehow, of being enveloped in loving arms - warm and caring - and they stayed around her as she climbed the stairs to her bed and fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

The rest of the week passed rather amicably. More amicably than she'd ever known. Mary didn't learn anything - no hidden secrets, no unfulfilled dreams, no deep wisdom - but she did feel something ... a fullness in her heart.

Of course she did pop back into her old behaviour from time to time - whining, demanding, asking questions - and, eventually, she'd catch herself asking, "Will I sell any buns doing what I'm doing now?" That question would bring her back to surrendering to the moment, to giving up, giving in and feeling that now-familiar peace envelop her. Even when she stuffed up, they seemed happy that she'd apologise - something she'd not really done before.

Staying out of her mother's kitchen, that sacred space, she bought food and took it round to the Fordyces, several times. Amid their protests that she shouldn't, they enjoyed convivial chats and they reminded her, often, what a quick learner she was - even quicker than James had been! This pleased her immensely.

Her brother, Angus, promised to visit her sometime in "that London town". She knew he wouldn't but his attempt at connection was touching.

Her father had obviously spent some time ferreting around in the attic and gave her three photos of her childhood and two of him as a child. He'd explained the photos with obvious and badly concealed emotion. On the last evening her mother had asked Mary if she'd help with the dinner and, though much of what she did was the wrong way 'o doin' it, she knew it was an honour never bestowed on anyone else before.

She left for London with an empty head and a full heart, quite oblivious that the universe had hatched plans to test her new-found sense of deep peace.