Our Mother

Our Mother

Who sits here in this kitchen with me

Your name is Love

You bring new life

You spark new hope

And you are weaving together heaven and earth.

Fill our bellies and our souls today,

Help us to love our sisters and brothers

With the same love you lavish on us,

The love we all need and want.

And send us out from this kitchen

To be the bearers of light, life, and hope

To a dark, hungry world

Because this food is too good not to share

This story begs to be told

And your glory never ends,

Amen.

mealtime prayer

God we are thankful for all you have given:
this food, this place, this moment
this table and each person gathered around it.
Bless these gifts; may we honor you as we enjoy them.
Thank you for being both Giver and gift. Amen.

exoskeletons

Ten thousand rocks, a dozen logs

and they are more than satisfied,

my wild crew.

Winter is kind today, 

our eyes squint at the sun-glared

Sound, happily harsh to our 

mole-ish faces, as we go

about our business 

disturbing crab families

in their sandy dens.

Two-inch patriarchs brandish 

tiny claws in our direction

as the women and children 

side-scurry to safety.

We are a family 

of mammoth tyrants 

at play, our lovely 

Saturday at the beach.

every day magic

Be a tourist in your city

Treat the children like guests

Love your husband like a stranger

Set the table for high tea 

Use your telephone voice

Notice our strange culture

Take vacations at the office

And make every effort to wonder

at the every day magic.

enough

I have been working with moms of babies and young toddlers for many years now through the class I teach at our church preschool. By and large, the women I have met through the class have been a lot like me: we are moms in the trenches, trying our best, but often worrying that its not enough. 

What is enough, anyway? And who gets to decide? 

We're not sure, so we scroll through our facebook feeds and fret about whether or not to enroll our 3 year old in a music class, and wonder if we should be putting kale chips in our kindergartner's lunches. It's exhausting.

We know the golden rule, "Thou shalt not compare thyself to other moms," but we all break it all the time, because we're afraid we might have forgotten something critical, something other moms know but we don't. After all, our kids deserve every opportunity... right?

But what if they don't? What if the facebook memes and P&G commercials and grandmotherly cliches in the supermarket aisle are largely missing the point of what our kids actually need from their mothers?

I'm beginning to wonder.

We all know that mothering matters, but we also know that there are many different ways to do it well. So exactly what parts matter most? They can't be tied to culture, or socioeconomic status, or personality, or staying home vs working, because I refuse to believe that money or extroversion or accessibility to play groups are strong enough factors to allow or deny a woman the opportunity to meet her child's needs (except in the most extreme cases of poverty). They can't be piano lessons, or an uninterrupted hour of daily interactive playtime with mom, or traditional two-parent homes.

So what are the essential pieces of motherhood that cannot be outsourced, the non-negotiable things that all children need which their mothers uniquely offer?

I humbly present my amateur, from-the-trenches, work-in-progress list. In my opinion, we'd do well to focus more on the essentials below, and less on how we measure up to one another on all the peripheral details.

1. Safety*. Our children need to be safe and feel safe. Safety comes before love on the list, because a child who does not feel safe cannot experience or receive love. Neurological research reveals that our brains cannot learn if they feel threatened or endangered. Does your child feel safe in their home? Did you vet their daycare provider? Did you buckle them in a car seat and hold their hand when you crossed the parking lot? Did you listen when they shared their fears or struggles, offering them safe emotional space? Give yourself a high five, mama. You're awesome!

2. Love. I know, I know, DUH. But it's essential, isn't it? And only a mother can give a mother's love. Let's make it our goal to learn our child's favorite way to receive love. Some kids need to hear it all day long and see it on the bathroom mirror and read it on a note in their lunch box. Others might brush away your words and hugs, but flash you a huge smile when you bring home their favorite take-out dinner. Get to know them, and love them how they love to be loved. Did you say "I love you" today? Did you kiss a cheek or tickle a belly or feign interest in a long-winded story about recess games? Pat yourself on the back, lady. You're nailing it!

3. Values. This is the tough one, and maybe the most overlooked. Our children need their mothers to teach them what matters in life, and there is only one way they will learn it: by example. As their mom, we are showing them in a million tiny ways all day long what it means to be a human being, what it means to be a woman, what it means to be a spouse, friend, neighbor, or co-worker. We can't just teach our values, we have to live them. No one else can do this for your child like you can. Do you want to teach your child to make healthy choices? Let them see you exercise, or go to counseling, or meet a friend for a drink after dinner (Yes, I really just listed that as a healthy choice. Deal with it.). Do you want your child to have a fulfilling spiritual life? Live yours in front of them. Do you want them to be generous? Make giving and serving part of your family culture.

Living as an example for your children will mean making mistakes in front of them too. I hate that part. But they need it. They need to see us fail, and try again. Fight, but make up. Snap, and then seek forgiveness. To me, this is the heart of what it means to be a good mom: to be your authentic self and to let them see. 

Maybe the first step for some of us is to honestly examine our values, and how those values line up with our lifestyle, habits, and routines. Sounds fun, sign me up, right? But truly, more than a college fund, more than organic veggies, more than select soccer camp, our kids need and deserve this from us. 

So, mom-in-the-trenches, be good to yourself. Be as kind to yourself as you are to your child. Value your own health and well-being, and they will learn to value theirs as well.

Did you do something good for your mental health today? Did you lose it with your kid, but then apologize and seek forgiveness? Did you make a choice today that was in line with the values you hope to impart to your children? Give yourself a gold star, woman. You are doing good work.

Mothering is not a world of one-to-one correspondence. We cannot follow a recipe and get the desired result guaranteed. But we all still need some reassurance that we are enough, and we won't find it on Pinterest. So let's try not to worry about, well, whatever nonsense we've been worrying about. Put them in ballet or don't, feed them fries or spinach frittatas or whatever's on sale at Grocery Outlet -- it's all good. Just keep them safe, show them love, and be yourself. You got this, mama.

*A caveat about safety: I am not talking about shielding our kids from the world at large or trying to keep them from experiencing any pain or difficulty in life. I am talking about the most basic level of safety, like protection from abuse and neglect. The kind of safety I believe that kids need is the kind that makes it safe for them to fall, fail, and get in a little trouble. I think our culture worships a different kind of smothering safety for children, but that's another post for another time.

no quick fix

Too small, he moved too much,

each leaving wound

a spring tight in his chest,

hair-trigger snares 

like nightshade sown

into a fruited soul.

Then he turned five

and sprung a leak,

unwinding wounds we

hoped were healed,

now tripped and spilling

purple down his shirt.

We keep him still,

or try, by clumsy hand

to mind and tend

the tender places,

blindly pressing 

band-aids over broken bones.

sort it out

Her sturdy fingers move

the wooden blocks 

from bin to floor

and back to bin:

the industry of one

year olds, a crucial task.

It looks like play,

but watch her face:

intent. Intentional,

her focus broken

just for bursts

of brief delight:

The blue block fits

inside the red bin!

And she sees that

it is good.

 

This is her very work

and she will 

do it well

and long past

babyhood, this careful

sort. Good from

bad, in from out,

meaning from

nothing, created

from Creator.

So sort the bits now,

little sister,

sort it out.

Teach me again

to put things in

right order,

so to find 

the boundary lines,

like blocks and bins,

in all their

pleasant places.

Simeon

He was born
into the great silence -
nearly five hundred
years without a prophet,
but Simeon heard

the old voices.
Go to the temple,
they told him,
and the people laughed.
All but Anna, who
clasped her bony hand
around his wrist
when he passed by:
Today, she whispered.

Surely not them.
The road-weary carpenter
and his girlish bride,
tattered bundle clutched

tight to her chest.
Yes.

His feet moved unbidden,
hands took the warm passel
of rags and flesh
from the unsuspecting mother.
Holding the Child,

he heard himself say
the words
to all the songs
the silence could hold no more.

For Logan, from your aunt on the occasion of your birth

The midwife took a photo
of your cord
where it hung,
attached at the furthest
edge by
a scant few

precious vessels.
Strands of life,
they tell your story:
a tale of enough,
a braided rope of
love, joy, and plenty

far right of reason,
and smack in the middle
of God's good grace.

Bless you, boy!

Be graced, good son,
to cast your steadfast line
to sea, and catch
all those who need a love
that won't let go,
and know:

Your mother's thread,
the Father's hand,
the Spirit's breath
will hold you still.

to ethiopia with love

I rip the envelope
in the Walgreens parking lot,
flip through each photo
first quickly, then again
taking my time
while the van idles, until
the kids get restless
and it's time to move on.

I drive home distracted,
trying to see each image
through your eyes:
how will it feel to see
the child you lost at home
with me? He smiles.
Will you?

Tomorrow I will send them,
these frozen moments --
a birthday dinner,
his preschool portrait,
the first soccer game (he
scored three goals).
A month from now,
maybe two,
an old friend will walk
down a long red road,
greet you with three kisses,
and hand you a package.

You will see his face,
and yours, and ours.
I can't pretend to know
what you will feel;
I only pray you know
our love is for you too.

a pre-written retrospective on motherhood

She kept having children
perhaps because
they all began babies,
who lay down quietly in her lap.

Nestled skin to skin,
full satisfied by all
her body had to give,
she delighted to be
emptied into them.

And then they flew
too far to follow,
followed dreams and girls
down roads
she hadn't chosen.

Now the stairs and hallways
rattle memories,
silence louder than
their shouting ever was.

She sits by the un-smudged
window, hands in her
empty lap,
quietly
sad and satisfied
in all her fullness.

to nurse

To tend,
or worry over,
in the case of wounds.
At a hospital,

to do a job,
a shift,
to lift and turn,
to measure, prod
and watch.

Here, in this darkened
room at dawn
it is love.
To give my
self, be emptied
and then filled

by the round
of her cheek, the
grasp of her tiny
fingers,
her weight in my lap,
content.

all downhill from there

They arrived by
leaving
the only home
they knew, a dark
paradise
without hunger,
without want,
without fear.
This very space
not only shrank but
squeezed,
pressed,
expelled,
ejected them
through a bath
of blood and water,
into a world of
harsh light,
brutal noise,
haunting hunger,
endless need.
Years later we
will fret over
a swat on the rear,
a scraped knee
the wrong soccer coach.
As if we had some
power to shield,
as if the bubble
ever stays intact,
as if the trauma
doesn't start with birth.

stranger son

I loved a boy
with an easy smile,
an eager heart,
an aim to please.
For seven years
I knew his face,
and he knew mine -
we were the same,
or so it seemed.

I lost that boy,
I don't know where,
or how, I only
know he's gone.
He's here, but not
the boy I loved,
and now my work
is just to love
another

(him).

He wears the face
of the boy I loved,
the easy boy,
and I forget --

Oh, let me not forget!

To love this boy
with the grimace face,
the angry fist,
the fearful heart:
we're still the same,
beloved, still.

a thousand winters for this

A thousand winters
for this:
white spray
against blue sound
and my babies
giggling
into the wind,
save one
warm on my chest.

If I saw the scene
in a painting --
our little boat
under sapphire skies,
ferries with fresh paint
and the mountains ringed
in cloudy crowns --

Contrived, I might say,
or sentimental.

But here now,
real:
I would live
a thousand winters
for this summer.

baby days

These are the days
of nakedness
with no shame,
no guilt, no blame,
no broken rules.
It's always OK
to cry,
and you can't
make any mistakes.
No wonder the Teacher
tells us to be
like you.

pure and wise

Wisdom too often
comes at the
cost of innocence,
but You say both:
doves and serpents,
holy and shrewd,
fly and slither,
strike
the heel,
but bring back
the olive branch.

some women

Some carried dirty water
too far in leaky buckets,
Some bent low to pick
hard crops in the hot sun.
Some kissed fevered foreheads
in ice-cold ICU wards,
Some made their choices
with no choice at all.
And me? I pushed
a stroller, saw a butterfly,
suffered the little children
come to me.
I'll never know why, but
God said it was
enough.

painting grief

They put her ashes
in the ground today,
my grandmother,
and I didn't cry.
The eulogies were stirring
but my eyes dry,
no tremble in my voice
when I stood with
my sister and sang.

Hours later now
I sit by myself
in the art museum
around the corner
from the church.
Where the words and
music of the
morning failed,
the lines and light
of the artist
succeed.

Undone, I cry
grace for the sinner
whose tears are too late.

dusk run

I run tonight
at the rabbit hour
after the rain,
mist rising off the
damp pavement
but it isn't cold
and the moon shines
yellow through
leftover clouds.
A short loop,
then an out-and-back,
my longest run
since the baby and
it feels good
even when it hurts.
The stretch beyond
the turnaround
grades just so,
a faint incline that
feels harder than a hill
because the eye says it flat
but the body disagrees,
and I think that crazy
may be as simple as that:
A fight between
the eyes and limbs
of a man who doesn't
know he's almost home.