P. 7
I don’t have that much love inside me, I muttered at myself, my two bare hands gripping the wooden edges of a church pew. I was thinking about my grandmother, who pretended she didn’t need my visit when I told her I planned to sleep over on Sunday night. As a matter of fact, she had called me a couple of weeks ago, asking me to see her soon. And yet, “I’m not bored,” was what she said when I laughingly told her I was coming to entertain her.
Why was it so hard for her to accept that she was in desperate need of someone else’s affection? I questioned in anguish. Why must pride come between us? Why couldn’t she recognize that her merciless past was no longer our present? Why must I always be the one to surrender? Thoughts bubbled inside me as I made my way to the church; I no longer wanted to please her or visit her in the midst of my busy schedule. I wanted to cancel everything and stay home instead.
But I didn’t cancel or swallow my bitterness. This time I chose a different option: I prayed. I admitted I was hurt by her actions. And I knew by gut instinct that the only way to cure from this was to embrace her with a larger love — to understand her, to imagine her life, her pain, and her miseries. At the same time, I wanted to understand mine. I wanted to understand how tired I was of giving, giving, giving; of understanding, understanding, understanding. I held tightly to the pew’s wooden edge and finally whispered: I need your love. I need your wisdom.
When I arrived at her place that night, she greeted me with a warm smile. We conversed in merriment and went to bed early. The next day, I made sure I went home at the exact time I intended. Once I reached home, I took a hot shower and a long, satisfying nap.
My wisdom, I realized, was in knowing my capacities and in mustering the courage to show up despite emotional exhaustion. Turns out I was not a saint. I couldn't be. I could never be someone’s savior either. But perhaps, I thought, true wisdom was not being an angel or an all-avoidant hermit in the name of self-preservation, but in balancing my needs with those of others.
And, alas — the battle never ends.
