Words For My Mother

Every year at Christmas, my father and I exchange children's books.  We write letters to each other, extolling the relevance of the chosen texts.  After the rug has been adorned with wrapping paper and gift bags, we exchange picture books.  We read aloud our chosen books in turn.  We read the letters.  It is my favorite part of Christmas. 

I frequently celebrate the influence of my father.  I reflect gratefully on his profound impact on the person I strive to become.  Every year, we celebrate each other, and throughout the year, the letters and stories remind us of who we are to each other.

It is not so simple with my mother.  

I struggle to write to my mother.   Words tangle and collapse in my mind, and I become lost in a spaghetti noodle mess of my thoughts and feelings.  

If you are reading this, please have grace for me.

I love my mother deeply, and to this end, words are not sufficient. 

As the younger of two daughters, sharing my mother has felt difficult and painful at times.  

My mother and I share a common vice.  We internalize the blame for circumstances beyond our realm of control.  However, my mother is much better at articulating her emotions and catalyzing change.  She allows the pain to motivate her.  Her storehouse of compassion runs incomprehensibly deep. 

My mother has a gift for finding the wounded birds.  She loves them until the wounds heal...

Twenty years ago, in 1998, I was invited to a birthday party.  Every girl in my 4th grade class was invited to Janelle's birthday celebration except for one.  Destiny.  
Destiny was not very popular.  She was kind and friendly, but she did not always understand personal boundaries.  She always had an assigned 'buddy' in class.  Janelle was frequently Destiny's buddy.  They lived in the same neighborhood, and Destiny idolized Janelle.  

Somehow, my mom discovered that Destiny was quietly uninvited to Janelle's birthday party.  I do not believe that Destiny's exclusion was an act of cruelty, so much as a reprieve for a little girl whose patience had been exhausted.

My mother called Destiny's mother.  She invited Destiny to go to the ice skating rink with my older sister.  My mother also graciously extended the invitation to me.  I could attend Janelle's birthday party or join Ashley and Destiny at the ice rink.  To my mother's silent disappointment, I chose to attend the birthday party.  Vanity was/is another one of my frequent vices.

Destiny bragged about ice skating with a 6th grader from Berry Middle School for weeks after Janelle's party.

When I think of my mother, Destiny comes to mind.  Her face joins a large crowd of friends- the lonely, the excluded, the invisible, the marginalized-- my mom had a knack for finding them.  

I know that I am only aware of a handful of the people that have benefited from my mother's humble compassion. I am filled with so much pride when I imagine the crowds of strangers who will someday line up to shake my mother's hand in heaven.

It is difficult to write about the woman I hope to become.  It feels too important and personal somehow.  She feels too important. 

My father has taught me so many things. 
But my mother has taught me to love.