It has been thirty-three years, and two hundred and fifty-six days since I became a mom but it took a while to sink in that I would always be one—no matter what. When Justin and Melanie were young, it was a no-brainer. As soon as Justin was born, it was clear that no matter how many siblings might join him, I was marked for life with another pulse beating in my veins. I don’t think it was just the fact that they literally used my body for an incubator because I know too many moms whose children came in other ways who feel that lifetime bond.
It wasn’t until much later as Justin and Melanie moved out into the world that I began to wonder if that bond is broken by distance or by simply growing into a new life. The separation that came with college definitely got my attention as I wondered if that was it. Did their distance mean that I was less of a mom? Had I lost them forever? Copious tears flowed and I felt like a barren cliché. Proud and happy for them and the excitement that came with their voices, I was totally miserable and yes if I am honest, afraid. Afraid that something had ben irrevocably severed.
It took awhile, but gradually that fear was replace with the realization that no matter how far away my kids might roam, I would always be a mom—specifically their mom. The bond built on laughter, tears, sickness, vacations, fights and boredom, fires and faith was and is real. Over the years, there have been moments in time when the motherhood connection even deepened. When Justin married, that bond with him remained, and yes, widened to include Farr. And watching my son hold his minutes old child broke my heart open with joy. On the other hand, Melanie’s cancer brought her back home in a way that I do not wish on anyone. And yet… And yet…I learned that walking with her through her cancer journey bonded us closer together. As a mom, I wanted to take that cancer from her and would have willingly assumed it for her if that were possible. While cancer can bring a family to its’ knees, ripping them apart, it seems to me that more often from that kneeling position a family can learn to stand again, supporting each other in ways they might not have comprehended before.
The mom musing really began this week on a last minute trip to visit my mom in North Carolina when I belatedly realized that she was going for Homecoming at my grandmother’s tiny country church outside Bedford, Va. –a pilgrimage I have made with her several times in the last few years. In this little church –St. Thomas Episcopal Church—my great grandmother worshipped with her five children. It was where my grandmother was married, where my great aunts and uncles worshiped until they died, and where my great aunt (and Godmother) played the organ with enthusiasm as she belted out hymns well into her eighties—her screechy voice hugely embarrassing to me as a child.
That little church means a lot in my mom’s family. Near the homestead that housed my great grandparents who had immigrated from their native England, it was the spiritual center of their lives; it is where my ancestors are buried. In that space, I felt my matriarchs looking over my should, whispering in my ear reminding me that I come from a long line of mom’s who gave life to their children. With the shiny hard wooden pews digging uncomfortably into my back, I could picture my great grandmother's darting looks at her row of four squirming girls and tiny son, and feel her angst sending her girls one by one to England for months at a time to visits with Big and Little Granny at her childhood home.
In that tiny church, I could only imagine the pride of my Granny as her son graduated from Annapolis and the heartbreak as he head to the South Pacific commanding troops landing on bloodied beaches; the love of her daughters and their families. Though long dead, for a moment it was almost like she was right next to me, her cool skin next to mine, her strength, fierce determination, wicked sense of humor, and faith holding me still.
And sitting beside me on Sunday was my mom, who has lost her grandparents, parents, brother, sister and perhaps most crushingly, her husband of forty-nine years now struggling with dimming eyesight. While she might never express it (that is not her way) I know, too, that she has suffered with her children living so far away. The woman who lived most of her life only blocks from her own mother, now copes with a son in New Mexico and a daughter in Boston. She has agonized as Melanie dealt with cancer and as I struggled as a mom to cope. And she has longed to watch her grandchildren grow up as her mother and her mother’s mother did.
Last Sunday, perhaps for the first time, I had a glimpse of the long line of strong mothers who came before me--those who fixed cuts and bruises and nagged their children; those who smiled with joy at their children’s and their children’s children’s lives; those who silently wept for them and prayed daily for their lives and who for the most part would be puzzled at my vocation as a priest in their beloved church. Sitting with them, I was, I am, filled with gratitude--gratitude for their blood flowing through my veins. Even more I am grateful for the blood, and strength, and courage of generations flowing the body of my daughter.
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