Mother's Day Without Our Mothers

A void is, by definition, an empty space, a vacuum. But I'd really like someone to tell me how emptiness can be so heavy. I mean, emptiness should be weightless, right? Nothingness? But that doesn't seem to be the case. 

I am, as they say, of a certain age. In the past two years, I have multiple friends who have lost their mothers. We are just in that season of our lives. And these friends, most of them enjoyed the blessing of their mothers for a good many years, but that changes little when it comes to loss. Losing someone, particularly a mom, can bring with it some pretty heavy feelings; hence, my marveling at the incalculable and completely unexpected weight of emptiness. As time has passed and the proverbial smoke has cleared, I have found myself grieving more than I did when my mother shuffled off this mortal coil. I am more aware of the loss and much more cognizant of the accompanying feelings. 

There's guilt, sorrow, longing; there's the disappointment of dreams that will never come true; there's pity for her and the parts of her that were never healed when she was with us; there's a wondering about what that healing looks like today; there's emptiness where purpose used to be; there are flowers blooming and warm days and birds singing without her --which I know is not a feeling, but for all the years she was with us, my brain has intrinsically linked all of Spring with her. There are empty chairs and blocks on the calendar that would never be so, were it not for her absence. There are birds that will land without comment and a dog that will go unscratched and sunglasses that hang by the door waiting to greet the summer sun. There is a room I will never again visit and laundry I will never again fold. There are cupcakes that will go unpurchased and walks that will never be taken. There are azaleas blooming in the local cemetery that will do so without their biggest fan. I'm finding the only thing that wounds more sharply than mail addressed to her is the blackness of an empty mailbox day after day. And there is pain, a great deal of pain.  

But there are happy tears mingled with sad. The empty spaces allow joy room to dance. Guilt flees at the first sign of truth. Disappointment gives way to hope which weaves its way through the tapestry of all life --good and bad --for those who trust in Christ. Pain and longing will come and go pretty much as they please, popping up when least expected or least convenient; but the longing is simply for a day, a day in which I will see my mother as she was meant to be, and the pain is nothing more than a heart so full of love it stretches its own boundaries until the day we meet again. 

Midweek: The Work of Forgiveness

This week's reprint is from Patricia Raybon's wonderful book, My First White Friend: Confessions on Race, Love, and Forgiveness. Growing up in the birth pangs of the civil rights movement, Raybon experienced racism and hate toward her and within her. In a chapter called Finding, she talks about first realizing her need to forgive, to forgive her father for teaching her the necessity of being "extra" --extra good and extra clean --so she could make her mark in a world antithetical to blacks and black culture, to forgive herself for being so angry she had failed him, to forgive white people for being white and all that came with it, and to wrestle with why God had allowed racial hatred in the first place. She quotes C.S. Lewis and says she was ready to do "the hard work of forgiveness."

But I still felt incomplete in this work, experimental and flawed. Like a pretender. I was mucking around in something true and golden, but my efforts felt insecure and inconsistent. And small.

God help me.

I prayed the prayer that started this sojourn.

God help me.

I liked the sound of this prayer. It reminded me that something bigger than me would enlighten this process.

God help me.

A beautiful prayer. I prayed it daily. Upon awakening. At the end of long days. Maybe even as I slept. I breathed this prayer, entreating divine powers. Blatantly, I just asked. God help me to find this way, to walk this path. Even when it's hard. God help me. Even when it's vicious. When the hate mail comes... and when the cold, suspicious stares follow me down American streets and into American stores and across American highways. Help me to understand other people's suspicions, not to mention my own. Help me to speak compassion to the malevolent, grant understanding to the hateful, give charity to the spiteful, healing to the hurting, love to the loveless.

God help me.

To understand my father's pain and fears. To see that he and his generation, white and black alike, were working with a flawed script, but it was the only one they knew. And my generation, black and white alike, with our flawed reactions, have taken those cues and done our own harm --as citizens, as sons and daughters, even as parents ourselves....

God help me.

I can't do this thing without You, Lord.

There's too much history and reason and precedence for hanging onto the past --for clinging to the sweetness of hurt.... Help me first... to 'name' my injury --to point at racial assault and call it all the awful thing it is: a murder of the soul, an attack on hope and faith. A spiritual rip-off.

Help me to see, as others have, that forgiveness isn't a contract with somebody. It doesn't have to take both parties. It only takes my willingness. God help me to be willing to forgive.

Help me, indeed, to honor the belief... that wounds and pain actually have a sacred quality --and that the purpose of wounds, in turn, is to call forth a sacred gift or sacred calling... recognizing any good that may trickle out of the pain you are enduring.

God help me.

~ Patricia Raybon

Are You Disappointed in Jesus? You Might Be Dog Food

Are you disappointed in Jesus? Don't worry, I can't hear your answer. Then again, Jesus can; but the truth is, He already knows. Has Jesus not been the Savior you wanted, the One who rescues you from your terrible marriage or your terrible job? Has Jesus failed to heal you or hear you? Is Jesus the slow kind of Deliverer, the kind you wouldn't tip well if he showed up with your take-out three hours later? Has Jesus not lived up to your expectations? C'mon, you gotta be honest with this. Listen to your self-talk. Examine your reaction in tough situations. What is your prayer life like? If you're fussing and cussing, complaining and comparing, pouting rather than praying, you might be showing signs of disappointment.

2 Corinthians 13:5 instructs us, Examine yourselves as to whether you are in the faith. Test yourselves. Do you not know yourselves, that Jesus Christ is in you?—unless indeed you are disqualified. Wow! Disqualified. The Amplified Bible says, unless indeed you fail the test and are rejected as counterfeit. A counterfeit Christian. If we examined ourselves, if we looked at our schedules, our search histories, our biggest dreams, our passions, would they reflect a matchless love for the Savior? If we placed ourselves in the fires of street evangelism (or just speaking to our neighbor about Jesus), if we experienced the vulnerability of forgiving our attacker, if we fasted for an entire day, if we signed up to teach summer VBS, if we rented that extra room at a ridiculously low rate to a single dad, if we tested ourselves, would we pass? Would we be found to be the "real deal," genuine, authentic, Grade A prime Christ follower? Or would we be tossed in the scrap heap, only good for dog food?

This time of year is great for sitting on the deck, reading, writing. I am a terrific Christian then! I've got this eternal life licked! Unless, of course, someone steps out into my little slice of Eden and wants to know what's for dinner. Frustration morphs my face into something prune-like and, as I allow it to linger, I realize this is all Jesus' fault. He could have made me wealthy with servants to take care of petty things like feeding my family. But He didn't. He could have given me a husband who loves to cook. But He didn't. I've been so good! I've spent more than a decade writing about You. I've helped others and rescued dogs and picked up trash. I've lived modestly. (I won't dare say the three words all this translates into, but they start with You, end with me, and have an owe in the middle.) And I am disappointed. Jesus has just not held up His end of the bargain. That is, if I am content with being dog food.

Examine yourself. Test yourself. Jesus is in you. The Jesus who has fearfully, wonderfully made each of us, who is before all things and holds all things together, who died that we might have life abundantly, who works all things to the good of those He has called, who is able to do exceedingly, abundantly above all we can ask or think, who has given us all things that pertain to life and godliness. Greater is He who is in me than he who is in the world! Am I really sour because I don't want to cook dinner? Number one, who do I think I am? And number two, does the stuff to which my flesh is drawn come remotely close to what Jesus has already given me? Not only is it the height of pride and dishonor, but it's just dumb. If I hold on, if I wait for all Jesus has for me, I will be found to be the "real deal." He wants to make me good for something more than kibble. He wants to make me salt and light in a lost world, to sanctify me and make me truly righteous and holy, like Him! He is not slow, He is not poor, He is not weak. In Him is nothing to be disappointed about. The transformation He has begun, He is faithful and able to complete. When we commit to following His commands and accepting His will, we grow: our eyesight improves, our palates are perfected, we become more knowledgeable in the ways our Deliverer works, and we can pass the test. He does not disappoint!