God's Will

By Allison Gehlhaus
Web Exclusive

Here it is, I thought, the ultimate paradox of motherhood. The word “mother” ushers in images of fullness, of bellies, of breasts, of arms. Then there’s the flip side, the side that doesn’t get much play time, the side that holds the endless tracks of losses - of small babies, of innocence, of good intentions. Once you experience the love, the immense volcano of love a mother has for her children, even her unborn ones, you can never be truly happy again. You’re too afraid to lose it. Yeah, I thought, watching my friend push her eggs around her plate, but it’s a paradox that I’m not going to talk about.

“I’ve always dreamt in the singular,” she said. Her blue eyes were filled with tears. I kept watching for when they would spill and fall. But they didn’t. Instead the tears just hung there, lush and still, vessels reflecting the colors around us.

I kept quiet.

“When I was little, you know, I dreamt about what my life would be. It never included anyone else. It was always just me, like in a studio apartment, painting, doing my thing. It was weird, you know. My sister dreamt of the big wedding, the white dress and all. I never dreamt of that.” She took a long sip of coffee and continued to stare out the window.

“And look at us now,” she said laughing. “I’m married, she’s not. I’m trying her dreams on for size, she’s trying mine.”

We let the sounds of the coffee shop envelope us up for a few moments.
“Do you think God punishes us for our dreams?” she asked, looking straight at me.

“Oh, no. Here we go. Don’t ask me.” It was my turn to watch the street traffic.

“How do you do it?” she asked.

“Do what?” I said, although I knew exactly what she meant. It always came down to this, the believers curious about the non-believers. They look at us with the same skepticism that we use when we look up towards heaven. She waited.

“I believe in stuff.” I said a bit defensively. “I believe in science. I believe in people. I…”

“Do you know what my sister-in-law said to me last night?” she said, interrupting.

“Chris? No. Tell me.”

“She said, ‘God must have wanted the baby more than I did.’”

“Ow,” I said, wincing.

“She said it was God’s will and all that. What do you think of that?”

“You really want to know?”

She nodded her head yes.

“I think it’s funny, even if you do believe, to imagine God’s up there in the sky, looming over us, like some white-haired judge on the “People’s Court,” deciding who deserves babies, who wants them badly enough, who dreams in the singular. Don’t you think he’s got enough to do? Why can’t bad stuff just happen?”

“That’s it, your philosophy? Bad stuff happens?” Lizzie said, her lips reluctantly turning into a smile. She poured herself another cup of coffee.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” I said, laughing. “Listen, I’m not proud of this. I’m winging it every day. I wish I could believe sometimes. I look at people who are comforted by their religion and envy that framework. All that certainty and answers to big questions.” I squirmed in my seat. “Rich and I wonder if we’re doing right by our kids. I know they’re little, but I tell them all the time, do the right thing because it’s the right thing. Be good people. Be kind. Be compassionate.” I shrugged. “What do I know? I’m flying without a safety net.”

I waited while she poured cream and sugar in it and stirred slowly, watching the whirlpool swirling around the inside of the mug.

“Part of me knows bad stuff just happens. But still… part of me wonders if I’m being punished, or tested. It’s hard to let that go,” she said. She looked like she was five again. Like she did when we met in kindergarten, in Sunday school of all places.