My mother was a saintly woman. She had a belief in God that was unswerving. She was baptized and educated in Catholic school until she was a teenager. She and most of her siblings faithfully attended mass on Sundays for the entirety of their lives and brought up me and my cousins in the Catholic faith. My mother was a deeply religious woman for whom God was a constant companion and guide for living. She read the Bible daily and prayed with confidence that her Lord was watching over her and me and my brothers. She followed the rules of the church but also believed that God was present in many different forms and cultural revelations. She often remarked that each person should be allowed to worship in his or her own fashion. While she loved the teachings of Jesus and thought that his admonition to love one another was the most important commandment, she also respected other faiths and often remarked that each of the spiritual ways that humans unravel the mysteries of life are beautiful. 

I suppose that my mother influenced my thinking as much as the nuns and priests who taught me for twelve years. I began to parse the human remarks of deacons and priests that I heard on Sundays when I attended mass. I realized that while we had the basics of the teachings of Jesus down pat, how we interpreted the ways to follow them tended to vary. Thus I became what some of my friends call a “cafeteria Catholic.” I chose to follow the simplest rendering of the examples and teachings of Jesus rather than becoming entangled in rules that seemed to me to be mostly created by human interpretations. 

I have found myself attempting to follow in my mother’s inclusive path of loving every person she encountered even when they did not love her. Somehow her nonjudgemental way of living impacted me and made me a better person altogether. I watched her as she was sometimes spurned by others because of her moments of mental illness. I saw her love them in spite of their lack of compassion for her. She walked through life welcoming every person who came her way, generously giving of herself and her limited treasures. 

I try to make my mother’s faith my own faith but I am not as saintly as she was. I get angry too easily when I see inhumanity unfolding before me. I have had to work hard to keep my judgements of others from blinding me to the beauty of each soul on this earth. I become surly when I see people hurting each other, raging wars, turning their backs on those who are different. Lately I have been wishing that my mother were still around to sweetly caution me to be more understanding and forgiving. Instead I found an article about Pop Francis that reminded me of my mother’s voice once again. 

The story was in a respected newspaper. It was about a woman who had once lived in Argentina just like Pope Francis. Her life was derailed early. She was poor and hungry and was trafficked sexually. Eventually she ended up in Italy where she plied the trade that had become the only profession that she knew. When Pope Francis lovingly reached out to the community to which this woman belonged she was fascinated that he was inviting her and others who are transgender, lesbians and gays to a public meeting with him. She was stunned by his open compassion as he embraced her and prayed for her. 

Since that time the woman regularly visits the Vatican. She brings empanadas that she has baked for Pope Frances. She looks forward to talking with him about life in Argentina. She loves that he calls her by name and always wants to know how she is doing. Mostly she knows that he loves her as one of God’s children. He does not judge her but he prays for her and in the process her faith has been restored. Goodness and acceptance was the key to helping her realize the kind of love that Jesus told us all to have. 

I think that all too often we humans equate religion with rules and judgements and punishments for those who do not conform to our own beliefs. We think that it is up to us to set people straight about God. We speak of having national religions to which everyone must adhere. We condemn those who are different, sometimes calling them sinners, perverts or worse. Somehow such ways of proselytizing are foreign to me. I think of my mother loving everyone just as they were. I think of Pope Francis insisting that it is not up to him to judge individuals. I think of Jesus purposely reaching out to people who were spurned in his day. I wonder how we got so far off the path of simply loving one another. 

I cannot possibly know what leads someone to become the person that he/she is. While certain lifestyles would be uncomfortable to me, how can I ever know how it feels for those who live them? I try to be like my mother and the Pope in embracing each person without trying to change them. I don’t classify people by stereotypes because I have learned that it is often the person most defamed by society who stops to minister to an injured person by the side of the road. It may be the agnostic or atheist who is the most caring person in the room. My mother and Pope Frances show me how to live and love in the best possible way. I am not nearly as wonderful as they are, but I will try my best to follow their saintly lead. They are the examples that I try to follow.