As I picked a bouquet of lilacs for our home, I was reminded of my mother. She enjoyed bringing a glimpse of beauty in from her garden, with a sprig of lily-of-the-valley beside her recliner or a single yellow rose in the slim bud vase on the kitchen table. She also kept up with holiday décor; red, white and blue bunting, ceramic bunnies and eggs, and lace-rimmed hearts and cupids in place well before the designated holidays.
As for me, I embody my dad’s frequent pronouncement: “a day late and a dollar short.” I fully intend to pick daffodils or pull out the tub of patriotic decorations, but I don’t always do so on a timely basis. As I sit down to write this week, I’m feeling like the “better late than never” relative whose birthday card seldom arrives on time (guilty as charged).
In the days since we celebrated Mother’s Day, I’ve been thinking a lot about mothers. Stand at the display racks overflowing with flowery verses on greeting cards, or scroll through the endless waves of tributes on Facebook, and the naïve observer might conclude that we live in a culture of perfect mothers and ever-grateful children.
Yet that assumption fails to recognize that on Mother’s Day, Hallmark, American Greetings, and children of all ages across America take the high road, at least for one day. Mothers across America do as well, choking down burnt toast and proclaiming it to be the best breakfast in bed they’ve ever had. In turn, children across America do their best to reach for their ideal of a mother, joining the lovely Madelyn Simone in this affirmation: “As you can see, my mom is special because she’s the best mom I had ever have.” Grammar issues aside, Madelyn’s eight-year-old wisdom captures a precious connection desired between mother and children.
However, the reality is that Mother’s Day is also tinged with loss – lost mothers, lost sons and daughters, lost dreams. That loss comes in many forms. A friend of a Facebook friend posted about their friend, Broadway actress Ruthie Ann Miles, who lost her four-year-old daughter in a tragic accident in Brooklyn two months ago, which critically injured Ms. Miles, seven months pregnant. Now, just days before Mother’s Day, Miles’ unborn child has died. Unimaginable loss.
The death of a child forever marks a mother (and a father as well), yet my heart also breaks for mothers whose children are alive, yet consumed by the world of addiction, the terror of domestic violence, the grip of mental illness, or the estrangement of selfishness or irresponsible choices. Theologians often debate the meaning of Genesis 3, but these women experience the unending truth of its words, “with pain you will give birth to children,” a pain mothers innately understand does not end in the delivery room.
Yet motherhood also brings a drowning joy. In my work-in-progress novel, the main character, an attorney turned Salvation Army officer, wrestles with the reality of motherhood. “These tiny humans, so dependent in their first months of life, can pretty much terrorize their parents.” But she also knows the truth of Mary Gordon’s words: “Nothing has ever been more powerful, nothing has ever been more dangerous [than mother love] and it takes her entirely by surprise . . . the exhaustion, the boredom . . . these are nothing compared to the drowning joy.”
Since Mother’s Day occurs on Sunday each year, churches traditionally recognize mothers with a carnation or a potted plant. Wanting to be sensitive to those with empty wombs, empty arms, and empty hearts, some choose to focus on the essence of motherhood rather than the physical experience of childbirth. As Mary Lee Downey expresses: “every single one of us, when we are nurturing, caring, empathetic, when we hold our friends and family close – we mother.”
Mother’s Day 2018 is history. Its flowers are fading and its sentiments may quickly be forgotten, but the reality of the drowning joy and the depth of pain experienced by those who dare to enter that dangerous mother-love reaches far beyond the second Sunday in May. Maybe I’m not really a day late after all.
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