Finding A Place To 'belong'

One of my most beloved scripture passages is John 14:2, where Jesus says, “In My Father’s house are many dwelling places; if it were not so, I would have told you; for I go to prepare a place for you.”  When I was a child and I tried to imagine what that dwelling place would be like, I always imagined a library.  Because my mother was such an avid reader, the library was a home away from home for me.

One of my favorite memories of my mother is of her sitting on the floor of the Carnegie Public Library in Poseyville reading books to my sisters and me on summer afternoons.  Sometimes there would be rain pattering on the roof overhead; other times there would be long beams of sunlight stretched across the floor.  Always, there would be the low hum of Mom’s contralto voice and the snug sense of belonging completely to the place and time I was occupying.  Like my mother, books were such easy companions.  The only things a book ever demanded of me were patience, gentle treatment, and an open mind. They didn’t care what I looked like, didn’t expect me to make conversation and were willing to accompany me anywhere.  

One of my favorite stories from my childhood was “The Ugly Duckling.”  It was the tale of a homely little creature who felt alienated from the world he occupied because he was so different.  I sympathized with the ugly duckling because I too felt a sense of not belonging during the school year.  I was an introverted, painfully shy child. It didn’t help that I was also extremely skinny with a shock of wild, frizzy hair that was often compared to a lion’s mane.  To make matters worse, I was raised in a very conservative community.  Although I loved my hometown and the people there, I was always very conscious of the fact that the open-minded nature and liberal values that were encouraged in my home were very much frowned upon at my school and in my parish.

For one example, my mother did not use punishment to control behavior in our home.  I was never spanked or grounded and never had privileges withheld because of bad behavior.  Instead, my mom spent a great deal of time explaining why certain behaviors were unacceptable and encouraging me to try to see and experience my behavior from other people’s perspectives.  Although “mindfulness” was never a word my mother used, it was something she encouraged day in and day out.  

She also encouraged questions, which I quickly learned were not well tolerated at school, especially during religion class. In addition, the brilliantly creative Father, unconditionally loving Son and unceasingly helpful Holy Ghost that my mother introduced me to at home were barely recognizable at school, where God was often portrayed as a fierce old man with a stick just waiting for me to mess something up.  The fact that other children seemed completely at ease with this fierce God as well as corporal punishment, and the routine belittling of struggling students, completely baffled me.  

I remember one particular occasion in second grade when a young school mate was paddled in front of the class for wetting her pants.  I listened to the laughter with my stomach churning.  I couldn’t wait to get home to tell my mother, who would somehow make me feel better about it without actually changing anything.  Her unconditional love was a healing salve to my wounded sensibilities.   

My early experiences of feeling like I was somehow growing up in a place and time where I didn’t belong were painful, but they had a profound effect on shaping my world view.  Because I so often felt “different,” I developed great sensitivity and compassion for those in life who are marginalized, abandoned or in any other way, left out.  

Often, in these early summer days of slanting sunlight and rainy afternoons, my thoughts are with my mother, who is in the place Jesus prepared for her, and with all those people in the world still looking for place where they belong.