When faith and love make a religion of two
My mother recently turned 95. Other than being hard of hearing and needing a cane to walk any distance, he is in reasonably good health and is looking forward to reaching the age of one century. First of all, his 96th year on Earth comes in December. Ninety-six in ’26.
She rarely makes New Year’s resolutions to ensure the continued health of herself, her children, her daughter-in-law, her grandchild, and her dwindling number of friends and relatives. My father died in 2012.
He is not a religious person. My father was brought up a Catholic but married my mother in her church, the Church of England. This was in the 50s. His family disowned him. His mother’s words, “You are not my son,” hovered like a dark shadow in his and his mother’s lives.
No one from the father’s side of the family attended the wedding. Two of his siblings, a sister and a brother, sat on the banks of the river that runs past the farm in the Hunter Valley and wept the afternoon he got married. They cried because they were not allowed to go. There was a side of him that the family had no idea about for years.
It was an epiphany when one day my aunt, who used to sit on the river bank and cry, wrote down a list of all my relatives for me. There were too many. He was also instrumental in organizing the reunion of the siblings and their families. I like to think that the circle that was broken years ago is now taking shape again.
As a result of the split, the church played no role in our family life. In fact, my father, who spent his working life at sea, first in the navy and then in the merchant branch, used to say that the only thing he believed in was the sun rising and setting. He had the important thing, our names, tattooed on his upper arm.
What she didn’t say, but what I felt intuitively at the time and appreciated more deeply as I got older, was that she, like my mother, had faith. This faith was in each other and in their children, my sister and me.
It was a belief born and sustained by love. It was a quiet love, as I suspected many men at the time. The vocabulary was much more action-oriented than the song of eternal love. I knew he loved me, but the only time I remember him saying that was when he died of cancer. He held my arm with the little strength he had left to say these words. I could only answer, I know dad, I know.
My mother is and has always been open about her love. The phrase “undying love” may be a cliché, but it’s the tune that plays throughout his days. And he knows something about melody. In his youth, he received certificates from the Victoria College of Music in London for his talent and mastery of the piano.
Love did not die in passing. My mother’s faith in my father, and her faith in him, carried them together through the decades. It’s a religion for two and, to use another cliché, yes, two hearts beat as one. Her name is Dorothy. His is Bob.
Warwick McFadyen is a Age desk editor.
