This is ironic, because I have been a mother in some way or another since I was a young girl. Family circumstances being what they were, I did a lot of parenting of my younger sisters in my growing up years. After I married, I became a foster mom sort-of-by-accident, because we knew a kid who needed a place to stay, and then another kid, and then another... And then I became an adoptive mom--which, I figured, was a good way to go about it, since adopting older children meant that a) I could skip the much-abhorred (by me) baby stage, and b) the years which I would spend in full-time parenting would be necessarily shortened by my sons' older ages (and if you think that I'm kidding about whether this occurred to me, you don't know me well).
And then within a few months, I decided I would like to birth a child, after all. I can't really tell you why I had this change of heart, except that it had to do with how happy I was at the time, and how willing to surrender my very, very specific life-plan. During our oldest son, Orilus', bone marrow transplant I did a lot of thinking about legacy and family; I still to this day remember nights lying with Orilus in his hospital bed while he underwent chemo and thinking about what would endure in times like that, when death was so near, and suffering so palpable and great. And after his suffering was completed and he was a walking miracle, life seemed a great gift to me, and I wanted to add another to our family.
And now I am a mom to another child who will need me, likely full-time, for the rest of her life.
And I spend way too much time wondering how long that life will be, and how much time we have.
And other times, I spend time worrying that she will live longer than I will, even though that's not as likely.
And--worst of all--there are really dark times when I imagine my life without her, and long for the days before she came when life was not about special needs and people staring and tantrums in public places and too many visits to the OR and the tedium of doctor's appointments and so many medications I have to write them down just so I don't lose track.
Those dark moments are fewer and much, much farther between than they used to be. But I do still catch myself sometimes, dreaming of a life that is beyond the limits of the life we live now.
Topping the huge list of things mothers (and actually, so many of us, men and women, both) don't talk about enough, is this frustration with our lives as they are. Over and over I find myself--again, this week--coming back to this acceptance, this settling-in, to what is.
Today as I was walking, I saw a beautiful flowering tree, bowing in the wind. And I was suddenly struck by this image of bowing to what-is. In nature, most things bow to what is--and they do so as a matter of survival. A tree that will not bow in wind, will break. And though some Americans rarely if ever bow--unless we are bowing to receive praise--in many traditions, bowing is a way to surrender, to prefer, to honor what-is as beautiful and lovely and worthy of respect. As holy.
So this Mother's Day, a holiday that is full of such mixed emotion for so many, I think we could learn from the tree I watched today. And bow to the mess, the awful and holy mess, of all that life is.
For me, the woman who never intended to be a mother and has yet become one in so many forms and ways, I intend to use this Mother's Day weekend to deepen my acceptance of my life, and my children's lives, as God's good gifts.
And so I bow this weekend to Orilus' 7-year bone marrow transplant anniversary--which falls on Mother's Day this year--and to his miracle-life. I bow to the life he is choosing apart from our home, and honor his independence and chutzpah, his resilience and his strength. I bow to the strength of his soul.
I bow this weekend to Jackson, the most fearless bone marrow transplant donor I know, and the countless ways he continues to give his life to others, especially now to Moriah. I bow to his deep and abiding love for her, which touches me in a way little else can. I bow to his intelligence, his quick wit, and the way he too often chooses the path of most resistance. I bow to his choice to grow in this way, and honor the resilience of his spirit.
I bow to Moriah and the spit-fire spirit she inherited from me, a spirit that has made her, too, a surgery-survivor. I bow to her courage to learn even when she is unhealthy. I bow to her curiosity, her laughter, her joy, her tenacity, her independent will, and the complicated medical interventions she needs. I bow to her voice, and her brilliance, and her huge and loving heart.
I bow to the giftedness of each of my children and the unique and precious gifts they have given me--humility, patience, long-suffering, prayerfulness, trust, surrender, courage, faith, love, hope, strength, resilience, courage, advocacy, compassion, discernment...
I bow to what will be.
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