I can’t tell you what it’s like to hear voices. But I can tell you what Mom’s face looks like. How she stops and stares, and listens as if someone were whispering in her ear.
I can’t tell you what causes schizophrenia (and neither, definitively, can the researchers), but if the whole world is made up of spiritual beings, as I somehow come to believe not long ago, then I do not find it hard to imagine that the sinister, frightening, self-destructive things that my mother hears do indeed come from an enemy of her body and soul. I know, because I live in the twenty-first century, that this destruction is a disorder in the physical matter of her mind.
I can’t tell you what goes on in my mom’s body when she hears voices, but I can tell you about the time that I heard the voice of God. I can tell you how I wondered…could this be it? Could this be the beginning of the end? But a greater part of me knew, in that way you somehow just know, that it was indeed the voice of something other than myself.
I can’t tell you if my mom ever wondered if she was losing her mind. If, in her early twenties, the voices that speak to all of us suddenly got louder and more persistent. But I know that as I began to pray, to tune into the spirit within, I wondered which voice, among all the noise that clamored around in my head when I was quiet enough to listen, was the true and lovely voice of God.
I can’t tell you if my mom will ever get well, but I can tell you what it’s like to be her daughter again, and to believe there is reason to hope that my presence in her life makes a difference. To believe that it gives her entry back into the world that was taken from her so long ago, the world where the true and lovely voice of God whispers to me: love her, no matter what – even when it’s uncomfortable, even when it’s scary, even when it’s frustrating. Love her, and be with her, and she will be yours again, and you, hers.