Such is the playground of my mind.
Yesterday was the anniversary of my "mother-who-raised-me's" death. I laugh inside, because of the way we make up names for people to express our feelings about them. It worried me for a long time: a dear friend who has been married forever has been called by her husband, what seems like forever, "the beast." It was a joke, of course, but every time he said it, it hurt me...and I am sure it hurt her. The payback of this 'joke' has been unending...their relationship is damaged, their children's relationships are damaged...and I'm just angry inside because no one is honestly talking about how they really feel about each other. All this unforgiveness clogging all the ateries that pump life into the heart of love.
I shared that because yesterday was the anniversary of my mother's death. (the one who raised me. See how I must distinguish the difference. My biological mother died on September 1st, 1985. This one died October 13th, 1995. Those ten years between were very hard for me and my relationship with my mothers. Who I was seemed to be in limbo. I felt like an Escher painting, or perhaps a Dali...surreal...the world was only a dream and someday, I would wake and all things would be neat and orderly again. Alas, it has been...nearly 20 years...and I have not awakened from the dream.
I chose to work a 15 hour shift at the hospital on that anniversary. I'm not sure why. But the conversations, with patients, family members and peers were (and still are) so deeply reflective. I've been trying to connect the dots from the week. Mothering seems to be the primary theme...perhaps because I choose it to be.
Took my grandchildren to the State Fair this week. I always enjoy being with them...seeing my son and his wife love them and each other...work out their differences...learn and grow...and seeing how I fit in to the mix. I had set a limit on how much money I would spend. Then my contribution would be complete. We had the choice of two more rides before we went home: the tram across the park, or the ferris wheel. The kids really wanted the ferris wheel. Despite my deep awareness of the arthritis beginning in my hips and not wanting to walk much anymore...I knew I wanted to take them on the ferris wheel, too.
The older children were excited to be "tall enough" to ride certain rides alone. Sadness enveloped the younger ones who wanted to stay with the big ones, and I smiled when I thought about all the lessons they were learning about life: what you can and can't have, the pleasure of delayed gratification, the need to make choices, the thrills sometimes short, sometimes disappointing, sometimes lifechanging.
We had already learned that, despite her age, the oldest did not care for roller-coasters. The smiles that began the ride ended with tears. It was not quite what she had expected. Agreeing to the ferris wheel, I did not yet learn what made her afraid. I thought it was the speed, the little car, the unexpected rising and falling.
I took the oldest three in one cage and my son and his wife took the youngest two. As it turned out, we were not placed in cars next to each other, but at opposite ends of the wheel. All were smiles until we got a little way up the circle. Then the oldest girl leaped across the cage, glued herself to me and buried her head in my shoulder.
No one knew until that moment, she was afraid of heights.
"I want off NOW!" and I held her and rocked her. We were about a quarter of the way up.
I began with a long litany of words. I am here for you. I won't let anything happen to you. You are safe with me. It's going to be okay. I'm not letting go. I wouldn't take you to any place that was not safe. Nothing is going to happen. It's going to be alright...See the beautiful sky? There is GG's house, Can you see the ride we went on over there? Look at the pretty colors.
Nothing was going to budge her. And then I wondered what her fear was doing to the other children. I spoke in my famous calming voice...the one I use when crisis hits...praying that the sound of it might bring comfort, because I knew in my heart I had absolutely no control of what could really happen on that ride (shadows of "the Five People You Meet in Heaven" came to my mind...it's all in God's hands, I thought, it's always in God's hands, I thought...but there's no way she can understand that...hell, most adults don't understand that)...I just seemed to know, in that moment...I needed to do my best to bring peace to the very immediate NOW. And, quite secondary, I hoped to begin a healing to this wound of fear brought about by very unexpected circumstances. I hoped I was being a good grandmother. I won't know for a time, because they have returned to their home...and we never got to talk about it. I pray, that given the test, I might have passed somehow.
Thinking about that adventure as I was drawn into my work of my very long shift and the hospital, I was called upon again to use my "calming voice." The other chaplain working with me kept speaking to me about it...about the power of a woman's voice to calm a crisis situation...about how I helped a child not to be fearful...he liked how I did my work.
And after a long night, I just did not want to go home yet. I was still kind of processing...and I didn't want to go home to all those distractions that Screwtape so cleverly writes about...so I went to the Half Price books and got a coffee at the Black Forest Bakery inside, spoke with a girl who had a ring through her nose that looked horribly painful (one like a cow, the kind you put a chain on and pull the cow to where you want her to go)...and behind me in line was a cop who looked like he was all of seven years old...and the thought of him carrying a gun worried me a little...didn't want to see that boy get shot...oh how my mind was wandering!
I went to the theology section, which had moved...so I could find my favorite places to just let my mind wander on all those books...still kind of in "numb" mode...the children at the hospital, some with good families and some with...not-so-good families...all the tears, the sleeping in chairs, the helplessness...and my own thoughts of zipping up my mother's body bag that night, knowing that at least one war had ended...as well as can be expected...no, better than expected...and that was a gift from God.
Feeling out of place in the theology section, I moved into the metaphysical section...and found a few gems: Anthony de Mello, Hugh Prather...a spiritual journey through gardening...and then I found the clearance section. And, all my itself on a shelf in the clearance section, with a sticker that was dated 10/13/12, was a little book, for $3: "I Am My Mother's Daughter" by Iris Krasnow: Under the title were these words: "making peace with mom before it's too late."
And who dares to tell me that there is no God?
I took my coffee to a table, sat down and began to read. I heard a curly haired woman talk with her friends about twittering...and her friends laughed. I watched an older couple walk slowly through the store holding hands, I heard the sounds of the steam machine in the coffee shop, making a capucchino...and I tried to read.
When I finish the book, I hope to have the courage to give it to my daughter. In the last 15 years, I have heard the many stories of mothers and daughters...okay, perhaps all of my life I have heard them...but when my mothers died...I heard them differently...with very sacred feelings...very holy feelings...about living and dying and the meaning of life.
So many little cruel moments to forgive, so many blessings never recognized in the moment of happening, but recognized the telling of the story. I'm beginning to realize that living the story is only living half of a life. The other half of being alive is telling the story. That is one of the greatest gifts from God: remembering.
Of course it is a double edged sword. How we remember is so very important. And on of the greatest gifts from the Incarnation, is the fact that we can "re-remember" a story so that it brings life to ourselves and to others.
Perhaps that is why my Emmaus Reunion group from nearly ten years ago, by the graces of one member, who brought us together again only a week or so ago. God has called us together again to tell our stories to each other: our closest to God moments and our farthest from God moments. Only three days ago a friend came up to me and said, "Cindy, I really miss out Saturday morning talks. Let's start them again." (she is part of my Catholic group of women)...and I thought, how important it is for us women to gather, as women of God...not exclusively Protestant or Catholic...or whatever, but as women of faith...and she our motherings to each other, to ourselves...whether we have children or not...we have inside us always the capability to love as a woman...and as a mother.
So, in my little journey, when I made my promise to God, "til death do us part" on that January 1, 2010...on the feast(?) day of Mary, Mother of God...I had no idea what I was doing. I did not understand how important it would be...and how now, with the annulment finalized, my commitment is to One alone.
These thoughts are far from complete or organized. But something important is happening. If you are able, find you grace in these words, and take them out into your world. There is a need for healing so great, you must do your part...offer the healing sound of your voice to the frightened little girls and boys out there..offer your voice as Mary's voice to her Son:
"It's going to be okay. You can do this. I will never leave you."
Love, Cindy
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