Mother's Day. It can't have snuck up on you, or me. The sweet, tear-jerking commercials; the handmade cards smelling of Elmer's glue and crayon; the preschool 'teas' and musical programs with dress-up clothes and tissue-paper and pipe-cleaner flowers; the bouquets in every store, and cards that never quite say what you intend, but fit the envelope just fine.
While for lots of us Mother's Day is a lovely time of sharing with our own children, or celebrating the love of our mothers for us, for some folks this day is among the toughest on the calendar. While others celebrate, these seek out solitude and separation, counting down the hours to sundown.
Some of these may be children of mothers who were never 'moms' --- those who would not, or could not, love their children; those who withheld human kindness or approval from children starving for it; those who abused the trust placed in them as mothers by hurting their children. How lonely it must be, to try being sold on the idea of a Mother's Day for a mother who wants nothing more from you than your absence.
Then there are women who mourn for children who are not. Women who carried life in them, only to grieve a too-early goodbye, never getting to celebrate birthdays, 'first days', Christmases with children hoped-for and dreamt. Women who struggle with fertility, hope with each turn of the calendar page that this might be the month. Women left with holes in lives and hearts when illness, accident, violence walk in the door and beloved children no longer do. Sometimes Mother's Day means getting through the day.
Then there are the ongoing struggles of motherhood that can complicate the feelings around general 'happiness'. Mothers who wait for their children's busy lives to settle down enough to include them. Mothers who find themselves lifelong advocates for their children in a variety of settings. Mothers who find themselves navigating with their children the deep waters of the health care system or the mental health system; mothers who become over-familiar with the tangled web of the juvenile justice system, or consistently stand in the gap in the halls and classrooms of school systems designed around the 'typical' student. Sometimes putting one foot in front of the other takes precedence over a Hallmark-driven remembrance.
For some of these folks, they hold onto what they can. When it comes to Mother's Day, they are just making it to Monday.
—from Mother’s Day 2013
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Sunday, May 13, 2018
Tuesday, December 16, 2014
...not one more December tragedy
Lully, lullay, thou little tiny Child,
By, by, lully, lullay:
Lullay, thou little tiny Child,
By by, lully, lullay.
---Robert Croo, 16th cent.
The bleak midwinter reveals a rock-hard core once again. At its base--- under the sleigh bells. and snowflakes, and merriment ---it seems, lie loss and mourning. Buried in the Christmas story in Matthew is the violent subplot of King Herod's slaughter of the innocents in Bethlehem. In his burning jealously over guarding his throne against usurpers, Herod sent his soldiers out to murder all the boys in Bethlehem whose births fit the Magis' calculations. In The Coventry Carol, featured in a 1534 pageant on the birth of Christ, mothers were shown rocking their babes, singing one last lullaby as Herod's army approached.
The grief of a mother over the loss of a child is, perhaps, our true picture of grief. Think of Michaelangelo's Pieta, with a diminutive Mary cradling her full-grown, newly-crucified son in her arms. Think of Jeremiah's prophecy, quoted in Matthew's gospel:
"A voice is heard in Ramah,
lamentation and bitter weeping.
Rachel is weeping for her children;
she refuses to be comforted for her children,
because they are no more."
It seems we would have learned, through the years, the centuries, to quit killing our children, to quit breaking our mothers' hearts. But we continue to observe our December tragedies, to see bleak midwinter run bleaker still at the point of a sword, the trigger of an assault rifle, the detonator of an IED. Terror looks like Herod's soldiers in Bethlehem, like Adam Lanza and a Bushmaster in Newtown, like the Pakistan Taliban in Peshawar.
If we've got a hope in this world, it is that, when God came to us, it was as one of us, flesh to flesh. As if to say, "Your lives can be holy, and the way you live in this world can be holy. Watch me."
Because we can. Not one more December tragedy.
By, by, lully, lullay:
Lullay, thou little tiny Child,
By by, lully, lullay.
---Robert Croo, 16th cent.
The bleak midwinter reveals a rock-hard core once again. At its base--- under the sleigh bells. and snowflakes, and merriment ---it seems, lie loss and mourning. Buried in the Christmas story in Matthew is the violent subplot of King Herod's slaughter of the innocents in Bethlehem. In his burning jealously over guarding his throne against usurpers, Herod sent his soldiers out to murder all the boys in Bethlehem whose births fit the Magis' calculations. In The Coventry Carol, featured in a 1534 pageant on the birth of Christ, mothers were shown rocking their babes, singing one last lullaby as Herod's army approached.
The grief of a mother over the loss of a child is, perhaps, our true picture of grief. Think of Michaelangelo's Pieta, with a diminutive Mary cradling her full-grown, newly-crucified son in her arms. Think of Jeremiah's prophecy, quoted in Matthew's gospel:
"A voice is heard in Ramah,
lamentation and bitter weeping.
Rachel is weeping for her children;
she refuses to be comforted for her children,
because they are no more."
It seems we would have learned, through the years, the centuries, to quit killing our children, to quit breaking our mothers' hearts. But we continue to observe our December tragedies, to see bleak midwinter run bleaker still at the point of a sword, the trigger of an assault rifle, the detonator of an IED. Terror looks like Herod's soldiers in Bethlehem, like Adam Lanza and a Bushmaster in Newtown, like the Pakistan Taliban in Peshawar.
If we've got a hope in this world, it is that, when God came to us, it was as one of us, flesh to flesh. As if to say, "Your lives can be holy, and the way you live in this world can be holy. Watch me."
Because we can. Not one more December tragedy.
Sunday, December 15, 2013
Risen with healing in his wings
Hail
the heaven-born Prince of Peace! Hail the Sun of Righteousness!
Light
and life to all he brings, risen with healing in his wings.
Mild
he lays his glory by, born that we no more may die,
Born
to raise us from the earth, born to give us second birth.
Hark!
The herald angels sing, “Glory to the new-born King!”
---Charles Wesley
There is a danger in the carols of Christmas, one that
threatens to deaden us to the wisdom hidden within. This danger is familiarity,
the same quality that makes them beloved. Anywhere you go, you are apt to hear
some version of this carol, sung or played by a wide variety of ensembles. Many
of us could sing this carol in our sleep --- all three verses!
Our familiarity with this carol should not, however, blind
us to the message of comfort and hope contained within. Hear these words anew: “Light and life to all he
brings, risen with healing in his wings….” We all know that in the
midst of the great joy of the season lurk illness, injury, grief, and sorrow.
These are part of life, and do not miraculously disappear during Advent and
Christmastide. But there is good news, even in darkness! There is one who
brings light for our darkness, life for our dead places, and healing for what
hurts us. In the middle of this tumultuous existence, Christ comes to meet our
deepest needs.
...so here we stand, whoever we are,
bathed in the light of a star...
Friday, December 13, 2013
Life's crushing load
And ye, beneath life's crushing load, whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way with painful steps and slow,
Look now! for glad and golden hours come swiftly on the wing.
O rest beside the weary road, and hear the angels sing.
--- Edmund Sears
There is no doubt about it --- real life doesn't stop for Advent and Christmas. And tragic times of loss and sadness are just as likely to befall us during this holy time as at any other. Doctors deliver life-changing health news. Beloved friends and family members pass away. Young disturbed boys with guns walk into schools and shoot away. People you trusted to stay, leave.
And just like that, the shine can be dimmed on the Christmas glitter. And honestly, that glitter may not ever come back with the same intensity. Because of all the things we are promised, a return to 'before-ness' is not one of them. And some days, it takes more effort to put one foot in front of the other. And some days those aches feel like a 'crushing load', and the path a 'climbing way'.
But there is comfort for the hurt, balm for the pain, a softening for the raw edges of grief. Because even here, resting beside the 'weary road', there is an angel song for what ails you. And me.
...so here we stand, whoever we are,
bathed in the light of a star...
Who toil along the climbing way with painful steps and slow,
Look now! for glad and golden hours come swiftly on the wing.
O rest beside the weary road, and hear the angels sing.
--- Edmund Sears
There is no doubt about it --- real life doesn't stop for Advent and Christmas. And tragic times of loss and sadness are just as likely to befall us during this holy time as at any other. Doctors deliver life-changing health news. Beloved friends and family members pass away. Young disturbed boys with guns walk into schools and shoot away. People you trusted to stay, leave.
And just like that, the shine can be dimmed on the Christmas glitter. And honestly, that glitter may not ever come back with the same intensity. Because of all the things we are promised, a return to 'before-ness' is not one of them. And some days, it takes more effort to put one foot in front of the other. And some days those aches feel like a 'crushing load', and the path a 'climbing way'.
But there is comfort for the hurt, balm for the pain, a softening for the raw edges of grief. Because even here, resting beside the 'weary road', there is an angel song for what ails you. And me.
...so here we stand, whoever we are,
bathed in the light of a star...
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Life, for our dead places
Hail
the heaven-born Prince of Peace! Hail the Sun of Righteousness!
Light
and life to all he brings, risen with healing in his wings.
Mild
he lays his glory by, born that we no more may die,
Born
to raise us from the earth, born to give us second birth.
Hark!
The herald angels sing, “Glory to the new-born King!”
There is a danger in the carols of Christmas, one that
threatens to deaden us to the wisdom hidden within. This danger is familiarity,
the same quality that makes them beloved. Anywhere you go, you are apt to hear
some version of this carol, sung or played by a wide variety of ensembles. Many
of us could sing this carol in our sleep --- all three verses!
Our familiarity with this carol should not, however, blind
us to the message of comfort and hope contained within. Hear these words anew: “Light and life to all he
brings, risen with healing in his wings….” We all know that in the
midst of the great joy of the season lurk illness, injury, grief, and sorrow.
These are part of life, and do not miraculously disappear during Advent and
Christmastide. But there is good news, even in darkness! There is one who
brings light for our darkness, life for our dead places, and healing for what
hurts us. In the middle of this tumultuous existence, Christ comes to meet our
deepest needs.
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