I.
H— was sleeping in her bouncer on the kitchen floor as I worked furiously to finish the week’s stack of dishes and clean the mess that the kitchen always seemed to be, no matter how often we cleaned it. Cec was resting in our room, turned in early for the night. I was singing along to my years old, “Best Of” playlist.
“Come sail away, come sail away, come sail away with meeeeeeeee…”
I was exhausted and overwhelmed. Life was just so much. Work, Cec, H—, and everything else up ahead.
Life was good. And exhausting. How do you do it all? How could I be a dad and husband and soon to be student and generally decent human and teacher and disciple and political activist for a thousand different worthy causes? How could I give Cec everything she needed? How could I give H— everything that she needed? How would I keep my own interests alive and balanced and myself thriving as a creative person on top of all that other stuff? How would I find time for all the movies I wanted to see, books I wanted to read, podcasts and albums I wanted to listen to, and other art that I wanted to engage with?
Who knew that washing the dishes could spark an existential crisis?
I kept washing. At least I could do that. Hopefully before H— woke up.
I just always felt like I was neglecting something. Not fully taking advantage of what life had to offer, that no matter how much I watched or read or wrote or did, it would never be enough. That I would always fall short of the time I should’ve spent with Cec and H—.
How do people do this? How do they live with this pressure, every day, forever? Does it ever get better?
I had just a few dishes left and was about to get to cleaning the kitchen. Which I’d been hoping to do all week.
H— started crying. She was suddenly awake and suffering, must have had a nightmare or something. She needed immediate attention.
“Hey, hey, H—. It’ll be okay. I’ll be right there.” I breathed out, trying to sound reassuring and calming and also urgent, as I tried to finish washing the dish in my hand and get it put down and my hands dry so I can pick her up.
Lost in my urgency, I don’t notice until I turn back to grab her that she’d stopped crying.
A woman was holding her, with red bushy hair, freckles, and bright green eyes. She was wearing a denim jacket covered in patches and, behind Her, parked in our kitchen, was a vaguely orb-shaped craft of some kind, with the door open, and controls visible.
“Well, now, H—. I’ve been hoping to get to see you. I’ve been watching your mom and dad for a long time, now. You’re in for a treat,” She looked up at me and winked, with a bright twinkle in Her eyes as She said that last line.
I felt like I knew Her, even though I knew I’d never seen Her before. I wasn’t sure what was going on and was honestly baffled at this spaceship that had found its way into our kitchen and this strange, familiar woman who was holding H—.
H— looked totally comfortable and thrilled to be in Her arms, which did something to assuage my fears (I’m not sure why I trust H— to be this barometer of truth and goodness, but it seems fair that her wild baby judgments may have something to them).
“Conor, you look exhausted. You gotta get some sleep. Probably the least helpful thing I could say to you right now, though. You’re a new dad. You won’t be sleeping well for at least like 18 years,” She finished with a grin and a soft laugh.
Realization dawned on me.
“God-Mom? Is that you?”
“In the flesh.”
I was stunned. No wonder She was familiar and strange all at the same time.
“Why me?”
She shrugged and then turned to H— to say, “You’re so cute,” as H— growled at Her in her new dinosaur voice that she’d been exploring the last couple of days. “You needed some help and had some questions, so here I am, perhaps not with answers, but with love.”
H—’s lip started to quiver and then she was screaming, yelling the loudest she could, as if she were dying.
God-Mom reached out to me, holding H— to pass her off. I took her, talking to her as I pull her close to me.
H— calmed down as soon as she was in my arms, intermittently reminding me of the suffering she had experienced with yells and pouts. As I focused on H—, I lost sight of Her until I looked back up and realized that She’d climbed aboard Her ship and was about to take off, Her Aquabats patch barely visible over the side of the ship.
“You take care of her, now, Conor.”
“I will, I do,” I affirmed enthusiastically. As I looked H— in the eyes, she smiled and laughed, and I was filled with light and goodness and joy.
“Ah, you’re feeling it, Conor. That’s how you carry on. Those moments right there. It won’t all be good, but nothing compares to those glimpses of Heaven that your children and loved ones give you.”
She’d stood up and moved out just a tad as this was happening, and now turned to get resettled in Her spaceship, “Take care of yourself, Conor. You’re no good to your family, friends, Church, or the world at large, if you don’t give yourself what you need, to be who you are and do the good you need to do.”
By this point She had returned to Her spaceship.
The door was closing and She was waving as I tried to wave, while holding a fussing and growling daughter.
“Oh, one last thing,” She called out. “Watch a movie. Read a book. Write. It’ll make you a better dad. And remember: reckless abandon.”
The door closed on Her twinkling eyes and then blasted into Space without destroying our roof.
“H—, what do you think about all that?” I asked.
She growled, smiled, and laughed.
II.
“Conor, your ideas are good, but they need a little more rigor. Come on. I know you can do better than this. The insights that you share in class, the depth of your thinking, your prose at its best…you’re capable of so much more.”
She was right, of course. I’d jotted the paper off at the last minute, per my usual modus operandi, and the result did leave something to be desired. But it was usually enough to satisfy my professors. Not Her.
Her office was brimming with the projects She was working on, a stack of third-wave feminist and queer theory texts next to scans of journals of first-generation converts to Mormonism and other 19th-Century religions founded in America, and in the far corner a mix of graphic novels, mythology, and postsecular theory. Small mementos from Her travels and years teaching were scattered among her desk and shelves.
She looked at me with Her fierce yet warm eyes.
“What’s your plan, Conor? How can we take this idea and flesh it out? You’re moving in interesting territory with your argument about superheroes as modern American myth, but what does that give us? What does that mean?”
I paused for a while before replying, “That is the question. I think we can learn something about our values and what we yearn for in the heroes that we look to.”
“Okay, but why are they like a modern myth, why draw the connection to Hercules and Zeus and Odin and countless other mythic figures from various traditions?”
“Pop culture is religion? That’s messy and more of a sociological argument, but I think there’s evidence for it. And obviously I can use Thor as a bridge figure, that these modern myths literally lift figures from old myths. I probably need to do something with Gaiman’s American Gods, but I can slip that in.”
She pushed me, asking, “But where’s the belief? Aren’t myths defined by the cultural belief in them? Their explanatory power? Some sort of belief system associated with them?”
“That’s the weak point. But does belief need to be literal? What about comic cons and Halloween and action figures and the ways that young kids are indoctrinated into the cult of Marvel or DC? Isn’t that a sort of belief?”
“Perhaps. You could establish some sort of rites or pilgrimages that would bolster the mythos argument. I’m not sold, but we’ll run with it. What do these myths give to us? What do they teach us?”
We’ve reached the peak, I thought, as I responded, “That’s complicated. There’s a strong individualist streak, a sort of Nietzschean ubermensch. Often the characters come from nothing, we have all these American Dream origin stories. Yet there’s also a focus on teamwork and this community of superpowered people that somewhat weakens the Nietzschean pull…”
She stopped me.
“Conor, why do you want to write about this?”
I sat, pondering.
She waited. Expectantly.
Why do I want to write about this? Probably some childhood thing. Maybe all those cartoons growing up. Perhaps to figure out why I’m still drawn to them, despite feeling ideologically conflicted about the violence and arguably fascistic bent of most, if not all, superheroes.
“To untangle my connection to superheroes. And because I feel like there’s some sort of religious or at least spiritual component. Maybe because I feel a sort of childlike faith when I encountered some of the films and want to figure out why and how I can replicate that elsewhere in my life. There’s something about how I understand and connect to God and power and salvation, I think, buried deep in my attachment to these films and I want to get at that.”
She smiled and leaned back.
“Now that’s interesting.”
We worked for the next hour or so bouncing ideas off one another, wrestling with my complicated connection to and relationship with these superheroes. It was enlightening. As we turned my scholarship back on me, it filled with new meaning.
We shook hands as I walked out.
“If you get stuck again, Conor, don’t hesitate to come by. Always happy to chat.”
“Will do, Professor. Thanks.”
She closed Her door and a last flash of light glinted off Her initials on Her nameplate, “H. M., Ph.D.”
As I walked away, I heard the faint hint of Danny Elfman’s haunting Batman theme and smiled.
III.
We entered the cafe, looking for our usual booth. It was open and Marie waved us to it.
We sat down; I was holding H— since it was Mother’s Day, doing what I could to give Cec a break. We talked about the normal everyday things that we always talk about, mixed in with some peppered interjections about the podcasts we’d both been listening to and the occasional pause to look at and talk to H—.
Marie came over to get our order and as Cec spoke for both of us, I noticed that Evelyn was at the counter, with a world-weary look on Her face. She’d always been great to H— and me and Cec in our time here, helping us feel welcome almost immediately.
I tried to puzzle over why she’d look so weary and was going to ask Cec if she’d heard anything, but H— started fussing and I forgot in the immediate flurry of helping her.
Our food came and we chatted, but I kept seeing Evelyn and thinking that we should say something to Her.
As we finished, we finally made our way over.
“Hey Evelyn, how’s it going?” I asked.
She raised Her head from Her steaming cup of coffee and smiled wearily but warmly as She locked eyes with H—.
“Always tired and sorrowing for the ills of the world and particularly for my sisters,” She replied.
She paused and swallowed, but the air was filled with Her words and holy—it felt wrong to speak, to violate the silence and space that She’d created, so I waited.
She started and stopped a few times, looking for the precise words to fit, the entire time communicating deeply with H— wordlessly.
“I’ve served the good people here for years and still, pain and suffering surround us. Despite my best efforts I can’t prevent people from hurting and I know the value of pain and the inevitability of grief, yet, still it hurts.” As She opened Herself up, tears welled in the corners of Her eyes and began to fall. “I look around me and am tired. Tired from the work I’ve done, tired at the thought of all the work there is to do, tired from the work that must be left to others.”
H— began to growl, babbling wildly and enthusiastically, smiling and looking straight at Evelyn.
Evelyn smiled and laughed, a smile and a laugh that knew deep pain, that felt the full breadth of life’s emotions.
“Thank you,” She said to all of us, but mostly, it seemed, to H—.
We said our goodbyes and I walked to the door, holding H—. As I reached the door, I looked back and saw that Cec and Evelyn were talking. I thought about going over again, but something held me back. I simply watched. They parted with a warm farewell.
Cec walked over and we joined hands, fingers interlocking. I smiled at her, and we walked back to the car.
Conor Hilton reversed the trek of his pioneer ancestors a few years ago to undertake a PhD at the University of Iowa. He primarily focuses on Gothic literature from the long 19th century, increasingly dabbling in the world of Mormon letters as a critic and fiction writer (recently in The Plan). You can find him on twitter @TheConorHilton.
