Last Thursday, just before bed, I was starting to feel under the weather. I had that unpleasant tickle in the back of my throat signalling the onset of post-nasal drip, to be followed soon by the inevitable roaring sore throat. I grumbled, I gripped, and before bed I prayed hard to my Mother.
“Please, Sekhmet-Mut, Who makes men healthy, Queen of plagues, Who is over the demons of illness – can I not be getting sick now? I have so much to do.”
I can help, but you know how it will work, She mused at me gently.
“Of course. What should I do?”
In the morning, set out the offerings of whiskey for your Father and His spirit, which you have forgotten for a week now, She chided me. Leave me the cinnamon whiskey as well.
“Thank You,” I muttered, and drifted off to sleep.
When morning came I had forgotten this exchange completely. I remembered after I got to work, gasping and swearing under my breath. I had a short day, so I finished my work and ran home to pour the offerings amidst profuse apologies. My sniffles relented by the end of the day… only to return a week later, delayed but not dismissed by Her hand.
Several years ago, before I knew Her as Mother, I was a freshman in college with a huge project to do, and the same tell-tale tickle in the back of my throat. I offered Her some orange juice and a quick desperate prayer to keep me from getting ill, so that I could finish my project. I stayed sick, the deadline of my project was pushed back a week, and She waved away my orange juice, joking: Next time, make it something stronger. I finished my project and promptly got sick again when I had to present it.
The score hasn’t changed. She won’t give me a quick fix, though She will give me what I need. I didn’t make the connection between these two anecdotes until this morning, as I sat sipping my orange juice, nursing my sniffles. She was much happier with Her offering this time around.