Mother, mother mother...

On December 7, 1996 I became a Mother. It was not the first time. On that day my late teen children were present bearing witness, and support, and love, as I was ordained as a priest in the Episcopal Church making me officially Mother Richmond—even if it is a title I don’t use. Becoming a priest or embracing a religious vocation of any kind, was not something that had ever been on my radar screen until very close to my fortieth birthday when my children were in their teenage year. But even if it had reared up in my soul when they were little, I do not believe it was something I would have pursued.  I simply was not as strong, or resilient, or brave as my clergy colleagues who juggle motherhood and the demands of small children. Being ordained was complicated enough with teens who were becoming somewhat self-sufficient.

It wasn’t until I was ordained and living into the reality being a priest that I began to experience of the conflict between being a wife and mother and priest. Too often vocation and family life were at odds.  There were the big times like Christmas and Easter when family traditions had to change, continue without me present, or if I was present, deal with an exhausted, stretched thin presence in the room. And there were all the little times as well-constant evening meetings, no time off together, as my kids only free time, always conflicted with work for me.  Even church could no longer be a family affair; it was work. We all adapted and my work brought deep joy, and even once in a while, especially in this last year of retirement, being Mother and mom come together.  Family and priesthood mingle in harmony as they did the same week I was remembering the fifteenth anniversary of my ordination.

The first took place as I participated in the wedding ceremony at Riverside Church in NYC—only a few blocks from where I was ordained. The bride, Alicia, was not my child, but I had been there on the day she was born six months before Justin came along. Along with her brother only weeks different in age from Melanie, the four had grown up together. As a “friends like family” wedding, all the west coast Richmond’s all came. While definitely in the “mom” category for Alicia, I was now her minister as well—a role I had never played for her. With her brother, D.J., standing up for her, family and friends gathered together, I found myself slipping into that other Mother space as celebrant leading Alicia in her vows to Jeff, the man she loved. Standing in the cavernous ornate sanctuary modeled after a Gothic cathedral that has seen the likes of Martin Luther King and Nelson Mandela preaching, I felt like a speck of dust--the towering space by far the largest church I had ever presided in.  But knowing that this day was one that would be etched in Alicia and Jeff’s collective souls, I gathered myself giving voice to the beauty and love of two people committing themselves to each other.  While not totally a foreign experience, there was a surreal quality as Mother and mom blended together to bless the occasion.

It was only a few days later, back in Boston, when it happened again but the setting could not have been more of a contrast.  On St. Nicholas Day—the patron saint of seafarers and children, our grandson, Cooper would be baptized in the small stone chapel of the Sister’s of St. Anne’s in Arlington. It is the church of my heart now –the place where I regularly celebrate the Eucharist in my ministry for Bethany House of Prayer. Inside thick-whitewashed walls, sit shiny dark wooden pews. Candlelit pictures and kneelers, carvings and niches with flower adorn the space that has been washed in the prayers of hundreds over the years. Services are generally filled with meditative silences, poetry, chant, and prayers.  Most people entering for the first time find themselves drawn into the silence, talking only in whispers. Then again, most people are not one and three year old boys.

Unlike the hundreds at Riverside, we were a small but faithful group--only with too many important folks missing-- Cooper’s other grandmother, Nancy, aunts and uncles. But the Sisters along with a handful of friends, including recent father- of-the bride, Dave who led us in prayers, a dear friend and colleague from Bethany and her son, and the Godparents and their children, formed a circle of love. At first, the service felt a bit like herding cats, squirmy children anxious to be free to roam trying to wriggle free. With the Sisters exuding love and joy and not a single concern for the chaos of little ones (thankfully), I began to relax into the ancient words, pouring and blessing water--prayer.  And finally with water dripping in a startled Cooper’s eyes, I made the sign of the cross on his innocent head, “Cooper Charles, you are sealed by the Holy Spirit in baptism and marked as Christ’s own forever. ” That was all, and it was everything that needed to be said. “Marked as Christ’s own forever.” Goodness, thankfulness, loved enveloped the room.

One week in December, with echoes from a day fifteen years before, my lives came together.  Honored, grateful, blessed—Mother and mom –always.

First Time Mom

Thirty-four years ago there was a storm brewing. If you lived in MA then, you will know what I am talking about. It was the winter of ‘78 and I was waiting to deliver our first born in a few weeks. But like those unpredictable storms that year, this baby was not waiting around because some expert said that he should. Like most babies I know, he decided to begin warning us of his impending arrival in the middle of the night with contractions regular and strong enough by 5:00 a.m. to send us sliding over icy roads to the hospital.

Entering the hospital doors, the quiet drive and the gradual gray sunrise gave way to bustling staff and glaring florescent hospital lights. I was scared, but it was not about giving birth. While intimidating, subconsciously, I think I believed that my body would know what to do to bring this baby into the world, and if my body rebelled, there were experts to get the job done.

What I was not at all sure about was taking care of this new tiny life.  There was never any internal debate about having children-- that desire lay deep in my soul—but over those months while my body grew and elbows and feet began to poke and prod my insides, it began to occur to me that I knew next to nothing about taking care of a child body or soul.  There had been no younger siblings for me, and I had minimal infant babysitting experience. Fortunately one set of dear friends, Bonnie and Dave Haley, preceded us by six months so I observed carefully and took a few turns holding a newborn, but that was about it. Bonnie seemed to know exactly what she was doing while I felt clueless.

During those hours of labor, body and baby demanded all the attention I could muster in my sleep-deprived state. Chris will tell people that the labor and delivery went just like the books said it would (although saying it he made it sound so easy—WHICH IT WAS NOT!!!) All that said, Justin Marshall Richmond, arrived in the world around two in the afternoon healthy, all fingers and toes accounted for and at a good 7 pounds 3 ounces, but incredibly small to my new mother eyes.

Most of those first hours, Chris and I were together or there were nurses and other staff around, but when it was just the two of us, fear rose crept in. At the time, I think I was afraid that I would break him some way. It was all about the physical then. How could a being so tiny have every tiny part work together to keep his breath going and his heart beating? And even more, lying with him in my arms, his tiny face was a puzzle I could not solve. It would take time, for me to gradually begin to recognize the pattern that was Justin as pieces slipped into place.

And I stumbled along, Justin teaching me how to be a mom, until his sister could come along and help him with that work. It was not always an easy process, but somehow we muddle through together.  I got a lot right, even with the mistakes made. The first time fears of trimming little tiny nails or giving baths, gave way to bigger ones. How do I teach a child to be generous and kind?  What do you do when your son’s heart is broken for the first time? How do help a daughter deal with cancer? The list goes on, the fears change, but the realization comes that we help each other. Mother and child finding the way to navigate life. And of course, I was not doing this alone. Chris and I learned together to be parents—to support each other as we learned to be mom and dad, while still being husband and wife.

And so it goes, the cycle of life continues. Now married to the woman he loves with a career doing fulfilling, invigorating, creative work, and two little men to fill their hearts.  The dance continues –the dance of mystery and discovery between parent and child goes on.

So Happy Birthday, number one son. Thank you for teaching me to be a mom. Thank you for being you. So proud..so proud.

In a Heartbeat

You know how sometimes you look at your children’s lives and you wish you could do a little something—maybe even a big something-- to make their lives easier. There were countless times when Melanie was struggling with cancer when those thoughts consumed me . Thankfully now she and her hubby are in a good place in their lives—exciting career opportunities, a life of friends and the outdoors in Seattle. But for number one son, it has not been such a smooth year.

In fact, 2011 was a challenge for Justin and his wife, Farracy with Justin slogging through crunch time as director of a video game that was released on November 1. (Uncharted 3—check it out!!!)  Who knew producing video game means working seven days a week, 16-18 hours a day for months on end? When the project wrapped in mid-October, Justin had had only had one day off since Melanie and Ben’s wedding in May.  Only days after the wrap date, he left for a two-week European publicity tour adding more alone parenting time for Farracy. Don’t get me wrong, Justin is a great dad; even when exhausted, he’s up early playing with the boys before leaving for work.  (When you get up at 6:00 there are actually hours of time.)

On top of job stress, last spring Farracy’s mom was diagnosed with lung cancer. And as our family and so many others know well, even with the best medical care, cancer means stress, and worry, and uncertainty all around.  Making several trips back to Texas to cheer her mom on gave the boys got lots of cousin time and Justin unrelenting work. (After months of totally debilitating chemo and radiation, happily she is currently tumor free. Shout out to Nancy!)

All this to say that when Uncharted 3 received an award in Spain and he was designated receive it, he agreed only on the condition that Farracy could come along-- a bit of R&R for the weary couple.  The only thing holding them back was someone to stay with the boys, Jackson, 3 and Cooper, 1. The call came, could we possible go to California? Even though Chris and I had just been there, I jumped at the opportunity to help, but work obligations for Chris meant I’d be flying solo on grandparenting duty. It would definitely be a different experience because those boys do love their Papa— endless source of activities and fun. Even with just about everyone questioning my sanity, I remained determined to go. (Do you have any idea what you’re getting into? You know, you’re not as young as you were when you did this before…”) Not wanting to admit it, having a bit of trepidation about tackling this alone, I reasoned it would only be four days and I had a pretty good track record. When Justin and Melanie were small, there was a lot of single parenting while Chris worked long hours.  How different could it be?

Still as the trip approached, my confidence waned. The four day trip morphed into six,  AND I realized the time change would happen the day they departed leaving me with chirpy voices used to getting up at 6:30 beginning to peep when the clock said 5:30. Okay, I told myself, you can do this, even if it meant eight o’clock bedtime for me.

Then the day before they were leaving, one of their two cats who had been in the boys’ lives forever, died. Hmm…not the perfect timing for children who had never been away from their parents for so long.  But it wasn’t until the man who was plunked down next to me in a middle seat on the plane (put there at the last minute to “redistribute weight”) began to throw up on take off that I began to panic. There I was on my way to care for two small boys wedged between a window and a sick person for six hours. (Mortified, the poor man apologized profusely saying he was sure it was a “bad breakfast sandwich.”  While feeling for him, I was not a happy camper.)

Suspended in mid-air cross the country, I worried and fumed imagining a week of worst-case scenarios until I completely exhausted myself falling asleep for the last hour. Upon landing while maneuvering my way through the terminal, seemingly from nowhere, a peace settle in me. There was a reassuring clarity that no matter what came, it would all be ok. I’m not sure where that assurance came from; maybe simply from living sixty–two years. After being a mom for thirty-four years, surviving the death of a parent, and cancer of a child, sitting at countless sickbeds, presiding at funerals, and listening to breaking hearts,  a certain understanding gradually seeped into my soul.  No matter what, life goes on and yes, “All shall be well…”  Six days with two little men? Imminently doable.

So how did it turn out?  It was not hard in the usual sense of the word, but it was exhausting. Exhausting, challenging, and extraordinarily GOOD. Knowing that it was just six days, I could immerse myself into a child’s world knowing I would be leaving it soon. But the child’s world of wonder also came with a black eye as Jackson and I collided with a bucket on his head. (Don’t ask. All you need to know is that “bucket head” is a hilariously funny game at 6:00 at night) And I did have companions making life easier: Farracy’s friends who drove Jackson to school and invited him over for a play date along with the lovely ladies at Mother’s Day Out who took a cranky Cooper on a day when his life seemed hard. Melanie and Ben via Skype had the boys laughing hysterically and letting off steam in the evenings while Chris sympathetically listened to my tales. But mostly, I was on my own just letting the days unfold, resting when the boys napped, going to bed early—very early—every night, taking walks and watching the world through child’s eyes.

In so many ways, it felt like I was getting the gift of a “do over” as a parent. Unlike the days when I was exhausted and nervous as a first, and then second time mom, there was a perspective of wisdom and the grace to take in the goodness of the days as well as the hard times. For six days, I did not have to worry about a single thing except being with those boys—listening to them (and yes, Jackson requires a lot of listening), seeing the world through their eyes, giving into fits of giggling and silliness, kissing fingers smashed in a door, endlessly reading books, and battling bed and nap time every single day, getting to know the little men in a deeper richer way.

The gift of remembering flowed as well. My now grown children came back to me with their goodness and their trials.  The memories of the young mother I was  flooded back. The days when impatience ruled and loneliness hung on me like a shroud—days when I would hunger for adult companionship or just the chance to slip away on my own for a few minutes, or delve into a book that would take me to a more exciting world. There was a newly found compassion for the younger me, for Farr, and all who care for young ones.

Seeing the returning relaxed faces of Justin and Farr was simply a bonus. Knowing they could begin another year together remembering what if felt like to stay out late and sleep until noon. Homecoming for them was joyful as was my coming home to Boston. Both felt right and good. I was exhausted, and exhilarated, and blessed by those six days. Would I do them a “favor” of taking the kids again? The answer is  simple because “favor” turned into blessing for me. (As favors are wont to do.) Would I do it again? In a heartbeat.  (are you listening J and Farr?)—in a heartbeat.

 The little men