I was chuffed to bits last week when my best friend’s teenage daughter signed up to LinkedIn and invited me to connect, her first invitee outside her immediate family.
She’s a grand lass, as we say up north. I’ve known her all her life and she’s kind of a Godchild. Only kind of, not a proper one, because of me and my stupid principles.
When her mum asked me way back when if I’d be a Godmother to her only daughter, I felt very honoured, but still refused. I explained that I was an atheist and didn’t think it was right to promise to a God I didn’t believe in, in a church that meant nothing to me, to bring her up as a Christian that I had no intention of doing.
The fact that Hubby and I were already Godparents to another little girl didn’t rock the consistency boat, because that Christening had taken place when we lived in America and we had been unable to get back to Blighty for the service, so hadn’t had to promise anything to anyone in any holy place, just sign a form.
I assured her parents that I would nevertheless always be there for their daughter, and their older son, with which everyone seemed happy.
But about a week after I’d polished my halo (which was impossible to do because there’s no way I can have one because I don’t believe in angels or sainthood) for being principled and true to my beliefs (or lack of them), my kid brother asked Hubby and me if we’d be Godparents to his firstborn.
Of course I again felt honoured but also a tad puzzled, because Bro. and Sis-in-law are bona fide church-going Christians. In fact, Sis-in-law is the daughter and niece of vicars and has, within the past few months, herself been ordained. Why on earth would they want two atheists to be their son’s Godparents? So I went through the same principled speech I’d just recited to my best friend, but my brother waved away my refusal, explaining that they had chosen six Godparents (three couples), four of whom would look after the littlun’s spiritual needs, while Hubby and I would bring a different perspective. (Deep pockets, perhaps?)
I reminded my brother that he was condoning us telling lies in church to a vicar, to which he responded, “My father-in-law is the vicar and knows what you’re like. He couldn’t give a hoot.”
Oh for this vicar’s real love for family, acceptance, forgiveness and, let’s face it, glorious pragmatism.
But I still had a problem – how to explain to my best friend that I’d swallowed my principles for my brother but not for her. I shouldn’t have worried. The reason she’s my best friend is that she too knows what I’m like, in so many ways, and couldn’t give a hoot. We laughed about it over a glass of wine and agreed on the idea that I could instead write a poem dedicated to her daughter and read it as part of the service, which I did, and afterwards gave her a framed copy. Hopefully she’s still got it:
YET TOMORROW …
and how you thwart attempts to tame your fringe and smooth the frizzes.
Yet tomorrow when you curl with tongs and set with gel and mousse
to thrill the fashion police no less, we’ll love you just as much.
and run away from cleaning cloths to tread crumbs in the carpet.
Yet tomorrow when you sit quite prim in restaurants or a bar
and chew your food so daintily we’ll love you as before.
We love the way you greet him when he rushes in from school.
Yet tomorrow when you’d rather meet with friends from down the street
and forget to invite poor James along, we’ll love you both to bits.
and how you think you’re making sense when really it’s absurd.
Yet tomorrow when you talk non-stop and barely pause to breathe
we’ll plug our ears and bite our tongues but love you still a treat.
that life is full of nursery rhymes, of make-believe and dreams.
Yet tomorrow when reality sounds its deafening wake-up call
remember one thing above all else – we’ll love you even more.
No comments:
Post a Comment