dailyeatings

I was on the phone with my parents, who wanted to know why I was so bummed on my birthday. And to my surprise, I did something I wouldn’t usually have done: I told them why. I provided a very honest list of reasons, going into a fair bit of detail, and shared with them the frustrations of my adult life. This isn’t usually how it goes with my parents and me—we have what I normally describe as a relationship based on a mix of psychic powers and osmosis, where their insight into my inner life is equal parts complete guesswork and the kind of subtle-signal-reading that comes from 20-odd years of dealing with somebody’s extremely private ways. After hearing my story, my mother, as she tends to do, told me she understood, encouraged me to cheer up and assured me that she would pray for me. Then I did something else that I normally would not, something else that surprised me: I told her Don’t. I told her I didn’t, and still don’t, want her or anybody else to pray for me. I told her it was patronizing, and that I was going to take care of it. But, she asked, didn’t I pray for my siblings and their safety, success and happiness? Not really, not anymore, I said—I trust them enough to know they are capable of taking care of themselves, no matter what might happen. I just want the same respect from you, I told her. My mother sighed and seemed ready to launch into her usual “Oh, David…” routine, wherein she delivers some pithy chestnut about life and faith and God and the importance of this or that, but this time, surprised me by cutting herself short, something she usually doesn’t do, and simply telling me how she was sorry, and that she was sure I would figure this out.