A patched robe in the pause before the incline to Jerusalem

TOMORROW, in some Christian faith traditions, is Mothering Sunday: a day to gather our fallen resolve from the valley of lapsed commitment. We spiritually recalibrate our intentions to the summit of Easter when, as we chant in the Nicene Creed of Jesus Christ: “He rose again.”

It is a tradition inherited from 16th century England, when apprentices and servants were granted leave from their Downton Abbey equivalent to visit their mother church.

Young people would take a gift of simnel cake – a marzipan layered fruit cake – for their moms, a honey and almond-laced gesture of appreciation.

In this pause before the incline to Jerusalem, I see my life much like the patched robe worn by St Francis. Its multiple patches cover hidden wounds, suppressed fears and anxiety.

It is a life blessed by those who, unlike the perfection-seeking young lovers described by Marianne in American Quilt, look beyond my patched self. They are familiar with “the art of sewing shreds together and of seeing beauty in a multiplicity of patches”.

I only have gratitude for my elders. Some were my schoolteachers.

My love of words was encouraged by Sister Ingrid, who taught English at St Augustine in Parow.

She made no distinction between those from the kriefgat of Elsies River and the ones from the salubrious, wine-and-roses avenues of life.

Ivy Petersen read my compositions to our matric class. I wrote to hear her laugh.

Bertram Parkerson, a wry-witted gentle man, taught us history contra to the syllabus dictated by the Department of Coloured Affairs.

On the other hand, I feared Mr Van Niekerk, our woodwork teacher. I bunked school one day, languishing in the bushes where the grimy Elsies River snaked through the industrial area of our township.

The next day, I was in the office of Sister Camilla, the principal, to “vat my pak”. Mr Van Niekerk was present, holding an inch-thick dowel stick. A few weeks before, the quality of my technical drawings had sentenced me to “six of the best”.

I was forced to bend across a woodwork bench, my wrists gripped by David de Voux, my friend. I could not jump up to rub where the searing blows cut across my bare, upper thighs and two-shorts-covered buttocks.

For days my backside was marvelled at in the boys toilet as my flesh coloured from bruised-purple to the green-yellow of recovery.

I had declined John Reed’s offer to “stiek’ie vark”. But I was moved by his gesture of solidarity (later fulfilled in the form of the deflated wheel of the lime-green Anglia of my persecutor).

Van Niekerk was informed that my punishment would be detention supervised by the young, pretty novice nun Sister Rosetta.

As a sign of my return to the fold she cast me in the end-of-year play as the fallen Adam. I had only one line: “I am a sinner”. Overcome by a packed, giggling school hall, I mumbled, “I am”, and fled offstage.

I would have preferred “six of the best”.