I woke up fine. Just fine. Not particularly celebratory (I had just taken Mary Hannah to her new summer post as a seasonal ranger at a State Park), but fine. It was Mother’s Day, and I was going to have a good day.
It was, in all honesty, the sermon that sent me spiraling. Our pastor preached a truly excellent sermon on Deuteronomy 5:16, adding some depth from other verses as to what it really looks like to “honor” your mother. And he did a stellar job of noting that some people’s relationships with their mothers are not such easy fodder for honor, and of gently broaching the topic of how to honor a mother who has already passed away.
But then he shared a tribute one man read to his dying mother in the final days of his care for her. And the words coming at me from the big screen we set up each week to stream Sunday service slipped away, and I was back in those awful last hours with my own mother. It was her panicked eyes and the tubes and machines and my heart pounding in my chest— so far from the sweet, gentle goodbye of a son standing over his mother and thanking her for a lifetime of love and a legacy of faith.
I cried most of the service, with my anxious children cutting their eyes at me every few minutes and offering weak smiles of encouragement. My husband had the desperate look of a man trying to steer a ship that’s suddenly found itself in the windless doldrums. They all saw me sinking, and oh, I fought to come back to the joyful place. But it was hard.
Later, Jemmy tearfully asked me how he was supposed to honor a birthmother he doesn’t know. I felt a double gut punch there: sadness for my sweet son, who will always feel torn on this day as he walks out what his story of loss and adoption, and anger at my own self-focused blindness that didn’t realize that some of his long looks at me during the service were really cries for reassurance in his own hurt places.
The day was redeemed. Outside, there was stilt walking (Jem is the master, and Mathaus can’t even manage a single step, it turns out). And our garden is slowly coming to life, despite three nights of unseasonal frost. The broccoli is thrilled, the beets are popping up, and the blueberries are just weeks away.
I walked quietly for a bit, reflecting and shaking off the narrow focus of hurt I had wallowed in all morning. Yes, Mother’s Day will always, in some part, be about my own mother. It can’t not be.
But there is more to Mother’s Day.
There’s my mother-in-law, whose love for her family is fierce. A friend recently shared a story of the fellowship of female elephants, and how they will stand hours, encircling the weak and vulnerable, and how they never tire of offering support to those in need. If a threat approaches their young or someone in their care, though, these gentle nurturers can turn on a dime and wage war on the enemy with a shocking ferocity of which they barely seem capable. This is my mother-in-law. She will do absolutely anything to bring joy and comfort to those she loves. She would also fight to the death for her people, and each one of us knows it. It’s both a comforting and humbling thing to be loved like that.
There’s also my stepmom, who has been part of my life since I was in high school. She’s one of those “always there for you” mothers who takes her greatest joy from standing back and just watching life unfold. She’s the grandma who never fails to show up with a huge supply of new whatnots for the kids, and who isn’t stingy with praise.
And, of course, Mother’s Day is me. Mother’s Day is 9 people here and afar who call me Momma, Mother, Mom, Mum, and Mother-in-Law (in Nepali, of course). Mother’s Day is “Watch me ride by myself!” and “I wrote you a poem!” It’s my husband bringing in Chinese take out, and texts from family and friends, and homemade cards, and doing chores anyway because really, what is a holiday when the floor needs to be swept or lunch needs to be made?
For many of us, Mother’s Day is a sticky place. But that’s o.k. It’s just a day. And it’s about more than us, or our own hurts, or whether or not our kids call us at 9 a.m. or 9 p.m. It’s about the moment—whatever it looks like as the day breaks— and the blessing we have in being called daughter, or mother, or granddaughter, or daughter-in-law. It’s about everyone having a place where they began. It’s about honoring those relationships God has given us, and stepping into all of those roles. That was never going to be neat and tidy, was it? It was never going to be covered by a vase of tulips, or a sentiment from Hallmark. I think it was never meant to be, really. “Honor your father and mother” is a pretty big command, after all.