MOTHERS IN MEMORY

We all have or had at least one. “To be” is to “have been born” into this world in the body of one. We had a birth mother.  We had those who bore us physically and then we had one or more “mothers” who birthed our soul’s song. We have had and have women in our lives who have hidden us in their womb of grace and nourished our fragile and vulnerable selves.

This season we celebrate these women. Some of us celebrate them by inviting them into our presence for dinner or throwing a grandkid party. But, others of us can only celebrate them by inviting their spirit into our memory. These women who have born us and borne our burdens with us are no longer physically with us. We can only remember.

And there is so much to remember. Mothers have dared to confront our dangerous behavior and we remember not liking them very much. We also remember times when we were sick and they sat beside our bed deep into the night. We remember their lack of patience on some occasions and we remember how they kept showing up, year after year, to support us in our uneven growth into self-agency.  Those of us who have parented children can’t help but marvel at how much self-doubt is present in the heart of a parent as we try to do the best thing for these little ones. And then we think of how much our mothers might have struggled to figure out the best way to help us in our emotional rollercoaster of maturing. We remember their persistent presence even when their bodies were rebelling and their hearts were broken. 

This season I remember and celebrate both the courage of my mother to do the tough work of discipline as well as the thousands of tender mercies that were showered on me —most of which I took for granted. I know my memory is faulty but I am choosing to remember with gratitude the mother who gave me breath and who taught my heart to sing.

THE DADDY I DIDN'T KNOW

I started crying. It got worse. I finally pulled the car over on an interstate exit. Better than driving off the road blinded by tears.

It was over 20 years ago, but the memory is vivid. I was on my way to Indianapolis for a meeting. I was listening to a tape. It was humorist Dave Barry. I was enjoying laughs that delighted my soul.

And then, it happened. Dave Barry started talking about his Dad. I don’t remember what he said, but I remember what happened to me. I suddenly realized how much I didn’t know about my Daddy. I was aware of huge gaps in my awareness of my Daddy’s story. And I began to cry. 

I had missed so much of my Daddy’s life. Oh, we had lived together for my first 18 years and I knew him.  But I realized that I didn’t really know him. There was so much that I had not seen. I wept over how much was hidden—some by him and some by my blindness. 

He has swallowed much of his pain to protect his children from the burdens of adulthood too soon. He hid behind his manhood—his role of providing stability and security for his family. He hid his unfulfilled dreams so we could fulfill our dreams. He buried his desires to satisfy the needs of those he loved.

And I didn’t know my Daddy because I was blind. I was blinded by my need for him to live beyond the mundane vulnerabilities of other humans; by my anger over his not being all I wanted him to be; by my sophomoric confidence that I new everything.

Fortunately for me, my Daddy was still alive at that point. And I made time to be alone with him, just to hear who he really was, unfiltered by others perceptions. And I am so glad I did. Some gaps were filled. Many were not. When he died, I wept for the loss of the Daddy I did know, but also, for the Daddy I did not know and would never know.

IT IS GOOD TO REMEMBER

I have been reading people’s response to the gratitude challenge on Facebook. It has caused me to think. And remember.

Monett High School, 1957-1961. I was allowed to play basketball. That is the advantage of going to a school in a small town.  I got to play. I was not very good, but in those days when there were not a lot of good players, I could play. And I learned. Jim Julian, former football star was the coach. And I am grateful to him, even though he fell on me in a scrimmage and broke my back and basically ended my basketball career.

And the Speech Department. I am grateful for it and it’s teacher, Priscilla Bradford. For when I couldn’t play basketball, I could go to Debate Tournaments, I could develop skills at public speaking, I could have leads in High School plays.

And the Jounalism Class. I not only learned to communicate, but I was able to do the 5 minute daily broadcast of the Monett High School news over the local radio station, KRMO. I learned not to be afraid of sharing myself with others.

And the Music Department and BC Bundy. I learned to read music, to sing and to play the trumpet in the marching band. I was in the Jazz band and learned the music of the streets.

And the citizens of Monett who came to the Dairy Queen my daddy and mother owned. I worked in it and i got to see them. But equally as important as my development in interacting with the public was the fact that they spent their hard earned money there and as a result I and all my siblings were able to go to college and to graduate without debt.

I am grateful to Monett and the High School for helping me grow into a person who could contribute as a citizen of the world.

PERIPHERAL VISION

I have two brothers and a sister.  The four of us were together recently. The gathering was for our oldest sister’s funeral.  These are always times for remembering.  We talked and told stories. As always, it was an interesting experience because it sometimes seems like we didn’t grow up together.  We talk about a given memory of a given event and it was almost like we weren’t at the same event.  We all remembered different things about it.  

In a recent conversation with a friend who has been studying the science of the brain, I discovered that the mind remembers in snap-shots.  And they are not taken with a wide-angle lens.These images are rather narrowly focused and there is limited peripheral vision.  Because the brain has a series of still photo that are connected to any given memory, we have to create a narrative around the images to make sense out of them. 

I think the narrative that is developed around the snap-shots is strongly effected by the emotional impact of the event.  For one person, the event might have been very painful.  For another it might have been deeply confusing.  For yet another, it might have had little emotional impact.  When we sit around and remember together, the narratives we create around the particular events becomes the truth about what happened.  And we can argue about whose memory is closest to the actual reality of the event.

But, I am not sure arguing is the best way to use our time. I don’t have to be right.  What I want to do is to stretch my understanding of our past with the narratives and perspectives of my siblings.  What was in my peripheral vision may have been the center of the photo for my sibling.  If I am able to see more clearly the snap-shot that they have captured, and if I can understand better the narrative they have created around the photo, I can develop a deeper appreciation for the complexity and rich texture of the life we lived.  

And who knows, I may even adapt my narrative and gain more insight into the way I act and the way I feel. 

PORTRAIT OF A SOUL

It was a few years ago now.  I gathered with my siblings in Kansas City to celebrate the life of our mother, Oma. She had died and we gathered from around the continent to give thanks for her life. Siblings, grandkids, friends. We were there sharing our connection with this one woman.

And we talked.  We talked, remembered, laughed and cried. We told stories of our mother. We shared our experiences, each with different stories of gifts and discipline, of confrontation and affection. Each story was a brush stroke on the canvas of our memories--a stroke bold and dark, delicate and light, soft and gentle, edged and tough. With each story more texture and dimension was added to the memory's portrait of my mother's soul.

When we tell the stories of the moments of our lives we create a portrait of our souls. The moments of our lives remembered are placed on a canvas of memory and we try to understand what it means to be us. With each story we shared at our mother's memorial service, we added to the meaning we were making of our mother's life with us.  As we heard friends talk and tell of her acts of kindness and her commitment to the "least of these" we filled in with color the sometimes faint images that childhood memories have.

It is in the human heart to seek meaning. We siblings each shared stories, painting fresh and complicated strokes on each other's canvases. As one spoke, the meaning of mother's life to the rest of us was shaded with more depth and character. When the story-telling and the memorial service was over, we all returned to our own homes with a portrait of our mother's soul more imprinted on our hearts. We each have our own understanding of our mother's meaning for our lives, and by sharing the stories of our lives with her, we enriched each other's portrait.