Mother's Day 2023

I watched as my mother, hunched almost in two and shuffling, lovingly carried her new treasure from our church. She cradled it in her palm as though it were an egg --Faberge, perhaps. To see her, this once snarky, once opinionated --and by "once" I mean "earlier this morning"--this once vexatious woman, meek and childlike, tender, and sweetly guarding a stuffed toy... 

I wept as I drove.

This is my mother. Ours has been a difficult relationship. I fought valiantly for freedom. In the end, she will win. She always did. I will love her and care for her despite my best efforts to be done with her. Her disability will become mine. She will search my face looking for clues as to what she is to do with her spoon or where she is to sit. Moments after affirming directions, I will feel her eyes upon me again --the spoon remains untouched alongside her bowl, she hovers as if in limbo, unsure of where to go. I will live on edge, knowing that as I raise my sandwich to my mouth, she will need to use the bathroom; knowing that as I begin to read, she will choo-choo and bang on the table; knowing that as I settle back into my seat, resigned to watch a movie with her rather than try to read alone, she will want to go outside; knowing that once she is seated comfortably outside, she will want to be inside. I will hear her footsteps on the stairs as I dash into the laundry to retrieve some things from the dryer; ever hot on my heels, she will not settle herself until I am found. And I will feel as if I am going mad. 

She has always needed. I have always felt obligated to satisfy. Ours has been a difficult relationship. But we have come to this place in these oh-so-many years that my heart has become tender toward her.  I can see how pain begets pain. Hers to me; mine to her. As I drove and wept she labored to speak. You. Me, she said. Somehow she knew. She is not the same as when this journey began; neither am I. On the outside she is more broken; on the inside I am more broken.

Later in the afternoon, I wonder how we got to this place. Who dealt these cards? Who designed this plan? And the why. Why this? Why this thing that causes me such frustration and such guilt? Why take her this way? Why allow her to suffer rather than simply dropping the curtain and allowing me to stay angry? Why do this thing which fills me with such pity, which tears down walls I'd erected years before, which has brought me to the place I care for her, have compassion on her, love her, need her, and which, in the end, will be the very thing that takes her from me? 

That is the cruel and perfect irony of it all. As I sit here wanting to burst into tears, wanting to weep and pour out my heart through words on a page, the destroyer that robs her of her faculties robs me of my opportunity to weep for her: She's watching; stay strong. As I pray for God to turn my heart toward Him and soften my heart toward her, I understand the pain of her brokenness has brought about the joy of mine. As I allow the ravages of this disease to transform stoney ground of hurt and unforgiveness in my life, I realize these are the very same ravages that remove life from her crooked body and transform it to dust. 

She has suffered that I might live. Lovingly carrying, cradling in her palm, meek and childlike, tender, and sweetly guarding not treasure but torment, that I might be made well.