Meant for Me

My mother took my hand and pressed it into her sweaty palm. She leaned toward me, curving her arm around my shoulders, then she quietly turned her mouth to my hair. I could tell she was crying when I heard her speak. "This was meant for you," she whispered, and when she pulled back, I saw the tears starting to pool in the faint pockets under her eyes.

She was worried about me, as any good mother would be, and she had decided to come with me to my Episcopalian church service this morning. During the ride to St. Mary's, she had been hesitant to tell me what she was thinking, but it didn't take much encouragement to make the words come. She told me she had asked God to speak a special message to me today, and she had recieved confirmation when she heard it in the sermon... but I didn't.(The rector might as well have been speaking in tongues.)

The Southern Baptists believe that if God causes someone to speak in tongues, He'll provide an interpreter. If there's no one there to make sense of the garble, then the prophet is false. I suppose my mother was the interpreter today... When we got to the car, I asked her to explain how the message applied to my life and what I'm going through. Of course she did, beautifully, and without any loose ends in her theology, but I still didn't feel it. She said it was meant for me... meant for me to hear and to feel and to grow from, but I missed it. Maybe I’m just not listening hard enough.