Five Minute Friday: MERCY

Today I'm linking up with Five Minute Friday, writing for five minutes on a given prompt. This week's word is MERCY.

Richard and I have been watching a very entertaining drama series called A Place to Call Home this summer, and the episode we watched last night was a fascinating example of the complex relationship between justice and mercy. (NOTE: IF YOU ARE CURRENTLY WATCHING OR INTEND TO WATCH THIS SHOW, YOU MAY WISH TO STOP READING TO AVOID SPOILERS.)

In the show, an evil, malicious man and woman (we'll call them Bad Guy and Bad Gal) are working together to bring down a wealthy but (mostly) good family. They do some terrible things to this family out of ambition, envy, revenge, resentment, twisted love -- all kinds of reasons.

But eventually Bad Gal is brought low, and gradually, over a period of three years, she starts to change. Bad Guy wants to keep using her to hurt the rich family -- but bit by bit she starts siding with the family, telling them Bad Guy's plans and how to get back at him. Because she's done such awful things on her own and in the service of Bad Guy, none of them wants to trust her at first. But slowly that changes too. The warnings she gives them come true. The suggestions she makes for how to thwart Bad Guy actually work. They begin to believe that -- despite all her malicious deeds -- she might actually be on their side after all.

When Bad Guy realizes Bad Gal has been working against him rather than for him, everything explodes, and Bad Gal is found dead. All the evidence points to Bad Guy, who is charged with her murder.

But then two members of the family make a shocking discovery: that Bad Gal actually ended her own life in hopes that Bad Guy would be charged with her murder. Bad Guy had the motive to kill her, and he probably wanted to, perhaps even tried to -- but he didn't do it.

So then the family must make a choice. Do they stay silent about what they've discovered, honour the sacrifice made by a woman they once despised, and let Bad Guy, who has caused them so much suffering, be punished for a crime he didn't commit? Or do they tell the police what they know, thus allowing Bad Guy to go free and (seemingly) nullifying Bad Gal's final attempt to atone for her misdeeds?

After deciding that the choice to keep silent must be a unanimous one, each member of the family states their opinion. One by one, each of them states that they want to keep silent and let Bad Guy go to prison. Finally the matriarch of the family speaks, casting the single opposing vote. She says, "I once betrayed my moral code because of love [helping her terminally ill husband end his own life]; I refuse to do it again because of hate." So the family tells the police, and Bad Guy goes free.

So is this an example of justice? Or mercy?

For Bad Guy, justice prevails: a man is accused of a crime, he's proven not to have committed that crime, and he's freed.

But Bad Guy also receives mercy. The family owe him nothing; he owes them reparations for all the ways he's violated them. But they make a choice that frees him of all obligation to make amends. He never pays and (from what we know of him) probably never will.

For Bad Gal, justice also prevails: she has done awful things, and she pays with her life to atone for them.

But there is mercy for her, too. The family has had every reason to reject, disbelieve, and mistrust her; yet they give her the gift of trust, of believing her when she says she's changed -- and she honours that trust. She ends up dying for people who have given her a chance. There's redemption in that.

Sometimes fiction is too black and white: the villains too villainous, the good guys too perfect, the outcomes too cut-and-dried. But good fiction reminds us how complex life can be -- how the black and white can blur into gray, how justice and mercy, love and hate, forgiveness and vengeance, can be all mixed together in a very complicated, and very human, package.

Whispering our stories

This Friday, it will be four years since my mom died.

This week I am reliving her last days. 

I had traveled from Ontario to PEI to spend a week with Mom and Dad in their apartment. Mom had been diagnosed with late-stage liver cancer several weeks earlier, and her prognosis (made tentatively, as all prognoses must be in cases like this) was 3-6 months.

The days started early: Dad is an early riser, and Mom would often be stirring before 7 a.m. Dad and I would help Mom to the bathroom, help her dress if she wanted to, help her to the breakfast table. Early in that week she would spend hours in the recliner chair in the living room, drifting in and out of sleep, sometimes making clear-yet-confused remarks.

"I wonder when this whole process is going to be over. I wish they'd just decide what day it's going to be."

"What, Mom?"

"The funeral, and all that."

"God will tell you when it's time," Dad said.

If the days started early, they ended early too -- at least for Mom and Dad. Often we would get Mom ready for bed right after supper; then Dad might decide to turn in as well, and soon I'd hear the two of them snoring away. I spent long hours in the evenings, reading, writing emails to my brothers, answering the phone, giving updates to relatives and friends.

It was mid-week when the shift to the next phase took place. Dad and I got up on the Wednesday morning, but Mom was deep in sleep. "Let's just let her be," I said, and Dad agreed -- as did the home care nurse when she arrived for her morning visit. "I think we are looking at days, not weeks, at this point," she said. "We may want to have the palliative team come."

That afternoon, while my mom slept, my dad and I, my brother, my aunts and uncle and cousin sat around the living room as the palliative care doctor and nurse explained what we could expect over the next few days and what options we had. Dad wanted to keep Mom home instead of having her admitted to the palliative unit. The doctor, who was warm and gentle, said that was fine and that we could change our minds at any time. The nurse, who was straightforward and a bit crusty, handed us her card and said, "If she's doing very poorly or you can't cope, don't call 911. Call me." There was a feeling of both apprehension and peacefulness in the room: we all realized the end was coming quickly, but we knew we were surrounded with people who would support Mom and us through the final stage.

The doctor told us about the medications they would prescribe to keep Mom comfortable over the last days; then she went into Mom's room and examined her. This was the first and last time they would see one another. "How are you feeling, Meredith?" the doctor asked kindly, taking Mom's hands.

"I think I just want to go," Mom said.

Four days after that, she died. I wasn't there for her last moments: I flew home the morning of the 28th, and she died that night. It had been a difficult decision, because I was needed in two places, but it was the right decision, and I knew she would agree. I had to let go of the desire to be there at the last. And when I said goodbye to her, she could no longer talk to me. Her eyes were wide and she moved her mouth, trying to speak, but she couldn't say any words. I had to let go of the wish for one last meaningful, mutual conversation. Perhaps she did, too: perhaps on some level she knew the moment was slipping away and couldn't be recaptured.

Over the past few days as I've been reliving and writing about these details, these moments, I found myself wondering why I am holding on to them so tightly -- why I have saved the emails and the Facebook messages and have read them over and over.

Before bed I sometimes like to read poetry to relax my mind. Last night I picked up John Blase's beautiful book of poems, The Jubilee, and opened it at random -- to this poem.

I Don't Believe I've Ever Told You

Are you ever afraid of dying?
I'm not talking about
the dying that will deposit you
directly into the Lord's presence (as some hold).
But the dying that will tear
you from the fabric of here,
here where you've seen wonders.
I don't believe I've ever told you I fear
that second kind of dying. But I do.
I'm telling you now because I've recently
seen how life changes in an ordinary instant,
reminds us we live in a game of gossip,
whispering our stories to the next in line.
We die. Then we're passed along in
another's tongue, and I'm afraid they'll
edit a crucial detail.


And instantly I understood. Yes. I want those details kept and known, exactly as they are. These are the words she used. This is what the room felt like. This is how she looked as I said goodbye.

But those are just my "crucial details." Maybe Mom had her own details that she hoped, at the end, wouldn't be edited out. I remember a couple of times in her last years she said to me, "Do you remember me yelling at you kids?" I was a mom myself by then, and each time I just laughed and said, "Oh, not at all -- I must have blocked it out." I realize now she was asking me, "Was I a good mother?" and I evaded the question with a joke. Now I wish I had answered a little more pointedly: "I do remember that -- but I also remember what a wonderful, caring, involved, sacrificial mom you've been. A little yelling can't change that." When I sat at her bedside for the last time, I told her she had been the best mom. I'm honestly not certain she understood me, but I choose to believe she did. And I have to let go, too, of my regret over not giving her more heartfelt reassurance back in those times when she was so obviously seeking it.

And maybe that's kind of the point. At the end of his poem, John Blase leaves his fears unresolved -- and I'm glad. I'm glad he doesn't tie the poem up neatly with platitudes like "But we can't worry about that because it's in God's hands" or "But what seems significant to us is nothing in the larger scheme of things." The details do matter. It's natural to want to be known and seen, to have our story "passed along" in a truthful way -- a way that acknowledges both our simplicity and our complexity. Yet because we're all human, we don't always do that perfectly for one another.

But we can do our best to honour the details, the memories, the words. After we've given them the attention they deserve, then maybe we can decide what needs keeping ... and what needs letting go.

Top photo by Richard Prinsen, 2012.

Bottom photo by unknown - Mom in the meadow, 1935.

Poem "I Don't Believe I've Ever Told You" by John Blase, from The Jubilee (published 2017).

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I'm adding this post to Addie Zierman's "Let Go" linkup. Addie is one of my favourite bloggers -- and as I wrote my own post, the theme of her linkup became a source of inspiration.

Knowing yourself: The Proust Questionnaire

Yesterday a friend published a blog post in which he gave his answers to the Proust Questionnaire, which was popularized (though not invented) by writer Marcel Proust. I'm a sucker for a good questionnaire, and this one is really interesting. Here are my answers -- now go and give it a try! You might be surprised at what you learn about yourself.

1. What is your idea of perfect happiness? Sitting on the deck with Richard after we've had a nice, peaceful supper -- the kids are contentedly doing their own thing and we're sipping a glass of wine and relaxing. (The winter version would be sitting in the living room doing the same thing: fireplace on, snow falling outside, nowhere else we have to be.)
2. What is your greatest fear? Fear as in phobia: flying. My more existential fear is about what will happen to our kids when Richard and I die.
3. What is the trait you most deplore in yourself? Impatience.
4. What is the trait you most deplore in others? Condescension.
5. Which living person do you most admire? General Romeo Dallaire, Jean Vanier.
6. What is your greatest extravagance? Probably buying books, though I am not really that extravagant in general.
7. What is your current state of mind? A little preoccupied with tonight's music practice for Sunday's church service -- but excited, not stressed.
8. What do you consider the most overrated virtue? "Authenticity." I do greatly value people being honest and vulnerable when it increases true connection and compassion -- but I am wary of people who seem to be self-revealing in order to get attention or praise.
9. On what occasion do you lie? I often fudge the truth with Jonathan about what we are going to be doing; otherwise he will talk about it NON-STOP until we do it.
10. What do you most dislike about your appearance? My very wide face, and my inability to tan.
11. Which living person do you most despise? Despise is a strong word, but I do find Trump extremely disturbing. I also deplore conspiracy theorists such as people who say the Sandy Hook massacre was a hoax, deliberately causing even greater pain to grieving families.
12. What is the quality you most like in others? Treating everyone they meet as equals.
13. What is the quality you most like in a woman? I guess as a straight woman I'm expected to say "man" here ... but it doesn't really matter, because (regardless of gender) my answer is the same as for #12: treating everyone they meet as equals.
14. Which words or phrases do you most overuse? In my writing: "certainly" and "definitely." In my speech: I'm not sure -- maybe someone else will have to point out to me that I overuse a certain expression.
15. What or who is the greatest love of your life? My husband and kids.
16. When and where were you happiest? When Allison was a baby and toddler.
17. Which talent would you most like to have? Being athletic without hurting myself. For example, I LOVE playing Frisbee, but at my age I hesitate to go all-out doing it in case I give myself a serious "weekend warrior" injury.
18. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be? I'd like to have 20/20 vision and not need glasses.
19. What do you consider your greatest achievement? Raising my kids without losing my mind (yet).
20. If you were to die and come back as another person, who would it be? I found this question hard. Perhaps Laura Ingalls Wilder -- she lived such an interesting life.
21. Where would you most like to live? I love Kingston and my neighbourhood, so I don't want to live anywhere else -- but if I had to answer, PEI.
22. What is your most treasured possession? Old letters and cards from when I was a kid.
23. What do you regard as your lowest depth of misery? Breakup with friend.
24. What is your favorite occupation? Writer.
25. What is your most marked characteristic? Sense of humour.
26. What do you most value in friendship? Faithfulness.
27. Who are your favorite writers? Jane Austen, Edith Wharton, Anne Tyler, Elizabeth Strout, C.S. Lewis, Brian Doyle, John Blase ... to name only a few in a long, long list!
28. Who is your hero in fiction? Frodo.
29. Which historical figure do you most identify with? This was also a difficult question; I haven't come up with an answer I'm happy with yet.
30. Who are your heroes in real life? Those who serve suffering or traumatized people in difficult places around the world, such as Doctors Without Borders (Medecins Sans Frontieres), Special Hope Network, or Preemptive Love Coalition.
31. What are your favorite names? Allison and Jonathan.
32. What is it that you dislike the most? Having to decide every day what to make for supper, and making it.
33. What is your greatest regret? Not giving the kids more chores and responsibilities at home. But that can change going forward.
34. How would you like to die? Peacefully, knowing the kids are looked after.
35. What is your motto? From The Lord of the Rings: "Such is oft the course of deeds that move the wheels of the world: small hands do them because they must, while the eyes of the great are elsewhere."