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The Wrong Ending
Chapter from an unpublished novel/memoir by Declan O'Leary (Ireland/Germany)
Don’t call me Naomi, she told them. Call me Mara, because the Almighty has made my life very bitter. I went away full, but the Lord has brought me back empty.
Ruth 1:20
Dublin, Moore Street market
2013
You can stop worrying! I’ve been feeling a lot better the last few weeks. Only this afternoon, my psychiatrist reminded me of the sorry state I was in this time last year. I still remember the look in his eyes which told me the depression had become chronic. "Why didn’t you come to me earlier?" he asked.
By December I knew, I couldn’t have taken another minute in that classroom. The new situation was even worse than the one I had fled from when you were still toddlers. This time I was forcing Irish grammar down the throats of Nigerians and Poles, as well as the usual mixture of disinterested working-class Irish kids. My religion lessons were even more soul-destroying:
"I’ve just popped in to see how you’re getting on, Mr. Mosely," was how Sister Maria greeted me at regular intervals. "I have the list of hymns for the prayer service and I thought you might appreciate this art book. It’s full of ideas for posters for the church."
"When do I get to teach them about God," I wondered, behind an all too willing smile. It had never bothered me in the past, but the years teaching religion in Germany had changed me.
Living alone in Dublin, of all places, without the three of you and your mother was just too much. "Nice to meet you," the neighbours said, shaking my hand when I moved in. "You’ll love it here after Germany. We’re very busy at the moment, but we’ll have you over for dinner soon."
"Thanks, I said, I’ll look forward to that."
"Your thoughts are deflected towards the negative pole," the psychiatrist explained. "Everything looks black and you have lost your sense of self-worth, but you have a great deal to live for, Mr. Mosely. You have lost the thread somewhere along the way. You need to go back and heal the wounds you are carrying around with you. Rediscovering the optimistic young man you once were could be the most important part of your recovery. Take a notebook and write a little every day. Don’t allow your present picture of Ireland to drag you down. One way or another, you need to come to terms with it to find peace."
I took his words to heart, as you know. A day hasn’t passed without something new being added to the manuscript and now I feel the need to share it with you. Your Ireland has been limited to the Irish breakfasts smuggled back in my luggage or wearing those stupid hats on St. Patrick’s Day. "Please Dad, can we go to Ireland this summer," you pleaded, but I always gave you the deaf ear. My trips were kept to duty calls and I dreaded every year that brought me closer to a forced return.
The first chain was broken twenty-five years ago, kneeling beside your mother in a tiny church in Poland. I had loved her from the first moment and I had won her against the odds. The love in her eyes gave me the wings that I had spent my life seeking. School poetry had left me cold, but Yeats suddenly made sense:
You can stop worrying! I’ve been feeling a lot better the last few weeks. Only this afternoon, my psychiatrist reminded me of the sorry state I was in this time last year. I still remember the look in his eyes which told me the depression had become chronic. "Why didn’t you come to me earlier?" he asked.
By December I knew, I couldn’t have taken another minute in that classroom. The new situation was even worse than the one I had fled from when you were still toddlers. This time I was forcing Irish grammar down the throats of Nigerians and Poles, as well as the usual mixture of disinterested working-class Irish kids. My religion lessons were even more soul-destroying:
"I’ve just popped in to see how you’re getting on, Mr. Mosely," was how Sister Maria greeted me at regular intervals. "I have the list of hymns for the prayer service and I thought you might appreciate this art book. It’s full of ideas for posters for the church."
"When do I get to teach them about God," I wondered, behind an all too willing smile. It had never bothered me in the past, but the years teaching religion in Germany had changed me.
Living alone in Dublin, of all places, without the three of you and your mother was just too much. "Nice to meet you," the neighbours said, shaking my hand when I moved in. "You’ll love it here after Germany. We’re very busy at the moment, but we’ll have you over for dinner soon."
"Thanks, I said, I’ll look forward to that."
"Your thoughts are deflected towards the negative pole," the psychiatrist explained. "Everything looks black and you have lost your sense of self-worth, but you have a great deal to live for, Mr. Mosely. You have lost the thread somewhere along the way. You need to go back and heal the wounds you are carrying around with you. Rediscovering the optimistic young man you once were could be the most important part of your recovery. Take a notebook and write a little every day. Don’t allow your present picture of Ireland to drag you down. One way or another, you need to come to terms with it to find peace."
I took his words to heart, as you know. A day hasn’t passed without something new being added to the manuscript and now I feel the need to share it with you. Your Ireland has been limited to the Irish breakfasts smuggled back in my luggage or wearing those stupid hats on St. Patrick’s Day. "Please Dad, can we go to Ireland this summer," you pleaded, but I always gave you the deaf ear. My trips were kept to duty calls and I dreaded every year that brought me closer to a forced return.
The first chain was broken twenty-five years ago, kneeling beside your mother in a tiny church in Poland. I had loved her from the first moment and I had won her against the odds. The love in her eyes gave me the wings that I had spent my life seeking. School poetry had left me cold, but Yeats suddenly made sense:
Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
The absolute trust in her face scared me. She saw a wonderful young man at her side. His neat black beard conferred a wisdom beyond his years and his fit, athletic body conveyed a vitality that made him invincible. Her uncle came from behind the altar and put our hands together to symbolise our eternal union. The world was at our feet and everything was possible.
The way of a fool is right in his own opinion, but the one who listens to advice is wise.
Proverbs 12:15
"Would you have anything against it if God accompanied me through my story?" I asked the psychiatrist on that first day. His smile told me that he had heard the same question many times before.
"Don’t get me wrong, Shaun, but I’m a bit of a Christian atheist. Face the truth on your own."
"Sorry," I apologised, "but God has to stay. My vision of Him has moved on. He doesn’t load me down with guilt anymore. I just wouldn’t have survived Ireland without Him."
"Keep him, Shaun, if you must," he answered, "but keep it real."
I knew by his tone that he had his reservations and I understood him only too well.
Notwithstanding the banning of gospels, which challenged the male dominated bias of the Bible, and despite the jealous, unforgiving, homophobic God we see through the words of some of its writers, enough remains to make it the most compelling, unfolding story I have ever read. Sometimes I lose the trail and I need to stop and wait. Like Job and Abraham I need patience. I’m not sure what happens when I try to understand God through the myriad images and messages, but the effort has become one of the most important occupations in my life. It takes a lifetime to learn to think with your heart.
"Don’t get me wrong, Shaun, but I’m a bit of a Christian atheist. Face the truth on your own."
"Sorry," I apologised, "but God has to stay. My vision of Him has moved on. He doesn’t load me down with guilt anymore. I just wouldn’t have survived Ireland without Him."
"Keep him, Shaun, if you must," he answered, "but keep it real."
I knew by his tone that he had his reservations and I understood him only too well.
Notwithstanding the banning of gospels, which challenged the male dominated bias of the Bible, and despite the jealous, unforgiving, homophobic God we see through the words of some of its writers, enough remains to make it the most compelling, unfolding story I have ever read. Sometimes I lose the trail and I need to stop and wait. Like Job and Abraham I need patience. I’m not sure what happens when I try to understand God through the myriad images and messages, but the effort has become one of the most important occupations in my life. It takes a lifetime to learn to think with your heart.
A person may think their own ways are right, but the LORD weighs the heart.
Proverbs 21:2
Come to me all of you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.
Matthew 11:28-30
Over the months my manuscript has taken on a life of its own. My struggle to give meaning to my life is only part of a bigger story. Our family’s story started long before you were born and it will go on long after you are dead. As was true of the generations that preceded us, your actions will touch the generations to come. You have come of age, the domino is now in your hands. Life is about the search for love. It never ends, but simply takes on different forms.
If you give away everything and sacrifice yourself, but have no love, you gain nothing.
Corinthians 13:3
Love is patient and kind; is not jealous or boastful;
is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way;
is not irritable or resentful;
does not rejoice at wrong, but rejoices in the right.
It bears all things, believes all things,
hopes all things, endures all things.
it never ends..
1 Corinthians 13:4-8
Simon Valcarcel (Spain): Me ha parecido un texto hermoso, profundo y muy humano. Muestra la necesidad del hombre de darle un sentido a la vida, más allá de las circunstancias de cada día. Muestra muy bien que sin amor, todo es nada. Me han gustado mucho las citas bíblicas, llenas de sentido. La fotografía me dejó pensativo y lleno de preguntas sin respuestas. La estructura narrativa me ha gustado porque es ágil, rápida y llena de una suave intriga. La insistencia en la presencia de Dios la encuentro, desde mi perspectiva española, sincera y valiente en estos tiempos de descreencia y materialismo atroz. ¡Enhorabuena al autor por la amenidad del relato y por el sentido profundo que adquiere! ¡Quiero leer más!
[The story is very well written: good pace, transparency, variety of registers. The subject is interesting: the emotional evolution of a man after years living in another country, the confrontation with a hard reality, not easily assimilable, love and spirituality as a means of personal improvement and an exit to the bad moments. The plot is original: like a dialogue between a man and a son (that's what I understood). Congratulations to the author.]
[The story is very well written: good pace, transparency, variety of registers. The subject is interesting: the emotional evolution of a man after years living in another country, the confrontation with a hard reality, not easily assimilable, love and spirituality as a means of personal improvement and an exit to the bad moments. The plot is original: like a dialogue between a man and a son (that's what I understood). Congratulations to the author.]
Steven Doyle (Eire): Very insightful, while set out from the point of view of dealing with issues and frustrations in life, it actually lists many blessings - a loving relationship, three children where the lines of communication are still open and strong and opportunities to influence young minds. Enjoyable to read, especially knowing a little of the background. This creates a feeling of standing on the brink of something.