A Party with Toasts to Honor My Mother

             

              Last night 21 members of family gathered to honor my mother’s 80^th birthday.  Some of the memories shared will help you see this pioneer woman.

                My youngest brother spoke of Wendell Berry’s poem focusing on the point that Mom was completely loyal and forgiving.  My sister remembers the garage shelves lined with the art and beauty of her canning: peaches, salmon, green beans, apple sauce, beets, jams, and pickles.  She fished with her husband, a commercial gillnetter.  If our neighbors had attended the party, they would  testify to the daily sight of a woman in a bathroom and rubber boots splitting her own kindling and wood to start the wood stove in our sprawling Victorian home without central heating. 

                V. also remembers her mistaken assumption that mom wasn’t quick enough to catch her after mouthing off.  G. laughed at the memory of mom flying down the Seattle hills

over the railroad crossings  in the 57 Chevy packed with his wide-eyed buddies as they raced toward the ferry just missing the lowering railroad gates. This prompted a string of memories of how committed she was to all of our activities – Peter spoke of his small college football games  in Eastern Washington in podunk towns in November.  With near freezing horizontal rains, the stands were virtually empty except for one figure wrapped in rain gear.  That was mom.  Debby,  my friend since high school spoke of the openness of our house.  She remembers us sneaking tastes of Mom’s famous Christmas rum-balls sitting in the extra fridge trying to age until gift-perfection.   And she remembers watching mom crunch up the soft canned salmon bones with a fork when making a salmon sandwich.  

                The grandkids ranging from age twelve to thirty-four spoke of the respect and trust Mom gave each of them.  They liked helping her at the post-office substation and stationary store during vacations. Mom received and gave respect to children.   L. remembers Mom defending her right to make fashion and hair style choices in her adolescence.  J. the youngest mother present spoke of how lovely it is to experience Mom’s exuberant enthusiasm for her two great grand-children.  

                I shared a story about mom that has always intrigued me:  I went into labor a bit early during the night with my second baby.  By morning the contractions stopped.  The doctor made this simplistic statement that it was not real labor because real labor does not stop.  The company where Alan worked was recovering from a nasty strike and the management was pretty hostile, so he felt that he needed to go to work in order to get some time off when the baby arrived.  This was pre-cell phone era and he would not be able to hear a phone if I called.  I was exhausted that day - uncomfortable and unable to take care of my three year old.  I went in to “real” labor that afternoon.  A sense of abandonment settled with the early January darkness.  As I struggled not to become distraught, the doorbell rang.

                Mom stood there looking concerned.  She had made the 90 minute trip unannounced.  Mom worked full time with her own busy life and never dropped in.   She spoke quickly almost apologetically,  “I have this over-whelming feeling that one of my daughters needs me.  If it is not you, I’m going on down to Olympia to check on your sister.“  I nearly pulled her off her feet through the front door.  Wide-eyed and worried, Philip clutched my leg.  Mom asked what I needed and I said that I needed help getting a hold of Al and taking care of Philip.  I needed to be able to concentrate on my contractions.  She asked when Philip had eaten last and I couldn’t tell her.  She brought him into the kitchen and made soup (not from a can) while I rested and paced in the dark living room.  She left me alone until she came in to announce her pleasure that Philip had eaten three bowls of her soup, and that Al was on his way home.  This event  reveals strata of my mom:  a mystical layer quietly supports unpretentious and practical nurturing.

                Last Mother’s Day at church people were invited to speak spontaneously of their mothers, and they offered marvelous reflections on their mothers.  I spoke of how my mother created in me an ability to trust – a trust that I transfer to the Divine (or the Divine transferred to me).  When I struggle with images of a judging God, isolation, emptiness, or fatigue from life’s complexities – the surest comfort comes from my images of the Divine Mother.  God is many things, but Mother God encompasses me with acceptance in tender embrace.  Like the Psalmist described, I am the infant resting on mother’s lap with my hands curled in rest. This is my surest image of my relationship with God which clearly relates to my mother’s care for me.

                I’ve copied the poem to which my brother referred.  Wendell Berry eloquently weaves together a mother’s ability to forgive, forget, and reflect heaven.

To My Mother

I was your rebellious son,
do you remember? Sometimes
I wonder if you do remember,
so complete has your forgiveness been.

So complete has your forgiveness been
I wonder sometimes if it did not
precede my wrong, and I erred,
safe found, within your love,

prepared ahead of me, the way home,
or my bed at night, so that almost
I should forgive you, who perhaps
foresaw the worst that I might do,

and forgave before I could act,
causing me to smile now, looking back,
to see how paltry was my worst,
compared to your forgiveness of it

already given. And this, then,
is the vision of that Heaven of which
we have heard, where those who love
each other have forgiven each other,

where, for that, the leaves are,
the light a music in the air,
and all is unentangled,
and all is undismayed.

                        by Wendell Berry

           

            May you all experience the nurturing love of a mother –whether you are giving or receiving as parent or child – whether you are male or female – a biological parent or other – whether old or young -in or beyond your family. And let us not forget to nurture ourselves. All of this is compassion – the root and fruition of goodness.