Happy Birthday, Danielle!

A sensitive mind sees outside the box;

An artistic spirit guides creative hands.

Attuned to giving, seeking peace;

A kind heart thoughtfully understands.

Mothers Day

Madonna and Child (cropped) by Rafaello Sanzio

There is a type of love that comes with being a mother that, for me, can only be described as ferocious. It is so strong that it influences decisions, drives late night worry, and overrides mistakes, hurts, and doubts. At its worst it can become unreasonable, manipulating, and selfish, but at its best it is forgiving, healing, and empowering.

This year I have experienced Mothers Day for the 55th time as a daughter and the 35th time as a mom. Although I miscarried our first child at three months, the feline roar of that love had already begun inside of me. It is as a mother that I was able to better understand my own mom. Her sacrifices meant more to me once I was an adult than they did when seen through childish eyes. Like being able to replay a movie to get more meaning from it, I now understand her perspective. For instance, as a child, I didn’t understand why she befriended a neighboring woman and her three small children. The kids had snotty noses and seemed unkempt to me and I was horrified once when she asked me to take them to a puppet show during a church bazaar. But Mom was inviting me into the realm of empathy and compassion. Knowing the woman was on her own after leaving a drunken and abusive spouse, Mom sewed clothes for her kids and helped rebuild her confidence through acceptance and friendship.

As a daughter I have come to realize that, although I struggle to become autonomous and wrestle with my own values and decisions, I will always be a child in need of a Mom’s love and approval. Oddly, that doesn’t even change when you have to assume the role of your parent’s parent because of age or infirmity. Similarly, as a mother, I am experiencing what Mom warned me of many times: that you never stop worrying about your children even though your ability to protect them wanes.

I believe Mary and Jesus understand this kind of connection because they lived it. I did not appreciate their relationship fully until I became a mother, but now I can imagine what this woman went through at the foot of the cross because I know in my heart that as she looked up at her son’s tortured figure, she could still feel his tiny presence in her arms from when he was a baby. It is comforting to me to know that they understand the struggles and the pain and the love that we experience in this life, and that we can look to them for sustenance where our human experience is wanting.

The connecting thread between mother and child may be fine, but it can still be strong. Ferociously strong. Forever.

Pieta by Michelangelo

Champagne and Cheesecake Celebrations

I went to a wedding recently that launched me into a reverie about the variety of such blissful occasions that I have attended. Some were lacy affairs that served a dainty fare of shrimp and petite fours while others, like mine, were down home celebrations with a barbecue and homemade ice cream. Some took place in parks, some in churches, and one in a pig barn (free of pigs, of course). Smiling brides wore veils, or flowers, or floppy hats, three-inch heels, Nikes, or flip-flops; but no matter what their wardrobe, the grooms always appeared white and solemn, as if holding their breath until it was over.

Although, some of the ceremonies might have been more a reflection of the bride or her parents than of the happy couple, each matrimonial pair found a way to reflect their own joy. One of my friends jumped off her wheat harvester and into her wedding gown just minutes before walking down the aisle, then flew off to a new life in New Zealand. Another couple interrupted their procession out in order to greet and hug friends and family on their respective sides of the aisle as they went.

One thing that makes these events fun are the innocent little foibles that don’t hurt anything, but make the day memorable. For instance, at a rather elegant wedding in a state park, the bride wound her way around a small lake before coming down the aisle while a small string quartet played airy music. The perfect visual touch of meandering geese, however, soon went out of control as the long-necked residents took umbrage at the parade of maids going through their midst and began squawking, scolding, and chasing them out of their territory.

Most recently, a barn full of onlookers were unexpectedly charmed by four very small attendants. The oldest boy, not quite four, pulled his baby sister and girl cousin up the aisle in a wagon, the latter flipping wads of flower petals behind her. After depositing them with Grandma, in the front row, he turned the wagon around and went back to fetch his toddler cousin. The sweetness of this quiet moment was suddenly shattered when he pulled up in front of the exit and called out, “Next” - disintegrating the spellbound audience into fits of giggles.

My own wedding was no exception. The ceremony went perfectly: the flower girl went down the aisle on cue, I didn’t trip or step on my dress when getting up from the kneeler, and neither of us fainted or threw up. Since we were skipping a reception in favor of a family barbecue, we greeted everyone as they came out of the church and breathed a sigh of relief as we waved goodbye to the last of the cars pulling out. That is, until we realized that we were being left stranded across town at the church in our wedding clothes without transportation! “Wait!” we shouted to Don’s parents, running for their car as it started to drive away. Ah, yes. Memories.

It just goes to show that “perfect” is in the eye of the beholder. As in the rest of life, we must follow our hearts in making it meaningful and allow laughter to soften the harsh edges. However we choose to celebrate it, real joy should not be contained, but allowed to spill over and infect everyone. At least no one used black electrical tape to spell “Help Me!” on the soles of the groom’s shoes so it would show up when he knelt at the altar. Oh, wait. Um. I guess that did happen…