The need for a mentor

The other day, I was in Paris buying liturgical gear for H. He loves the stuff and it makes for great pressents. I was there happily spending an hour or so deciding which stole and thuribles I was going to get. The upstairs level part of the shop is mostly for the general public (pictures, candles and the like) while the downstairs level has got all the priestly stuff. The Italian-speaking nuns were very friendly during that time, but when I went back upstairs to get some incense, another nun appeared, who was just as friendly as the other, but seemed pretty clever on top of it all, and one of those instant judge of character.

Now it became clear that my presence in there, on my own, picking stoles as if they were flower arrangements, chatting away with the attendent nuns about how that one was too flowery and that one was too sober and that one looked cheap and that one was too modern, was a bit unusual. That fact sunk in further when a cyclist walked in and immediately adopted an overly deferential tone to ask one of the nuns for directions. Oh God, I thought, those Parisian catholics are all dead solemn. I look like an elephant in a china store. Or like a carefree young woman in a liturgical shop, indeed.

I could tell the nun from upstairs was quite curious to engage me. "You bought a lot of things today" she finally tried. Uh... oh... I'm totally busted buying stuff for my schismatic boyfriend, let's make a quick exit, I thought. "Yes" I said, sheepishly, and exit I did, fast. It was nothing. But a couple of days later I found myself longing for something like her seemingly wise presence.

I remembered my first ventures into idealistic do-gooding. Joining all the humanitarian societies on campus, and oscillating between the all-night phone counselling, twice weekly afternoons at the homeless shelter, running the Amnesty International campus branch and going to all the political talks, lying on a bed for hours with a newly-diagnosed HIV-positive friend talking and listening to The Piano, writing to a Californian death Row inmate while, on top of it all, my parents were getting a divorce. I don't think I was bad at any of it... but eventually I crashed, and abruptly gave almost all of it up (fortunately, as I've written elsewhere, the death row inmate was writing to many people at the same time, as for my friend, we're still friends of course and he's one of the best, most promising, prize-winning young scientists in the UK).

I remember my recently submitted doctoral thesis, in which I'd been longing for mentoring and got almost none. Noncommittal comments yes. Mean looks for missed deadlines yes. Drunken nights at the pub yes. But mentoring, no.

As I approach my thirties, I find myself chatting to my priestly boyfriend and he's got no mentor either. Sure, I mean, there are people that we call our mentors because it sounds good, on formal acknowledgements and the like. We're doing fine for thirty-year olds. I mean, he's an awesome listener and a very good priest. I've acquired a gentle touch which people around me seem to like. But we're young. There is so much wisdom we don't have.

I'm a bit ashamed to say, but the verses I love most in the Bible are Proverbs 8: 32-36, which refer to wisdom:

"And now, O sons, listen to me: blessed are those who keep my ways. Hear instruction and be wise, and do not neglect it. Blessed is the one who listens to me, watching daily at my gates, waiting beside my doors. For whoever finds me finds life and obtains favor from the LORD, but he who fails to find me injures himself; all who hate me love death."

Definitely not the most famous or beautiful verses around, but I just love them. In very vain terms, one of the things that pleased me most ever was to see one of my online comments referred to as the wisest thing said on a particular topic. That was three years ago and I'm still massively pleased. But now I'm getting rambly. I always want more wisdom than I've got and I wish I had a mentor. Until I find one, maybe I'll read pastoral letters. But I would love a mentor who loved me.