I know it is a weird holiday . . . not quite real . . . though it was born in my home state of West Virginia and only hijacked by a Hallmark hostile takeover. It can be hard on single friends or those who wish children but cannot have them. Too many people do not have a relationship with their mother or had a bad mother and the sappy commercials are hard for those folk.
And yet to state the obvious: motherhood is a hard task essential to our survival, good motherhood to flourishing. When we fall short of the ideal or what is best, the best still exists. Our pain reminds us of this truth. Our hurting children, or our child that is in Paradise, do not hurt less on Mother’s Day. They even hurt a bit more . . . but the hurting is part of knowing what should be and someday will be. Celebrating motherhood and good mothers strikes me as a very good thing to do: a day to find the places where the world works. My mother was and is a good mother to many people, not just to my brother and me.
She is (to a great extent) as she should be and any excuse to say so is welcome. Americans know it is hard to be virtuous, but Mom shows it is possible. I can begin today to become like she is. What are some of those qualities?
Mom made us think and taught us to read.
Mom never, ever accepts easy answers and wants to “get to the bottom of every claim.” If we developed a trendy new belief, she wanted to know if it was true, not if the cool kids did it. If it was true, then my forever growing mother wanted to believe and do it too!
As for reading, Mom read to us at night. Given Dad’s eyesight, she often read very long books out loud from history to fantasy to anything else we might enjoy as a family. I do not remember learning to read, but somehow sitting with Mom and looking at books was enough. What she loved was good enough.
Mom is in our corner in public and rebukes us (when needed) at home.
I remember one of the few bad teachers I ever had and dreading the parent conference when this crazy person would talk to Mom and Dad. Mom knew we were imperfect (to say the least) and was almost always supportive of teachers. She knew that they were her co-parents in bringing us up. This time, however, Mom came home and said: “Well, that was crazy. You should have let us know. We will help you get through this year.” Nothing else about that year mattered to me, because I knew Mom and Dad were with me and that was more than enough given the situation.
They would have done more if needed!
At other times, I shamed the family by bad deeds, but Mom would come and stand in solidarity with me. She did not rebuke me in public or abuse me in private. What she did do was stand with me as she could and then dialogue with me about my failures.
Mom is unsparing of evil, but kind to evil doers.
Mom never pretended our sins were ok, but she wasn’t horrified by them either. She never once made me think the problem of sin was social shame. It did not matter what the neighbors thought of me, only God. If I repented, God would forgive and Mom would let the neighbors make up their own mind.
She wants us to be good not just seem to be good. Sometimes (God forgive me) I have persisted in an evil and Mom never has waivered. She is unsparing to evils, but merciful to me. She taught me that I am not just the bad thing I do, but that there was more to me and it was that more that she could love. This lesson has gone with me all my life.
Mom could make something of nothing and it would be a party.
There are pastors who get rich in ministry and I wonder about their piety, but Dad was not such a man. He worked hard, served harder, and sometimes times were hard. His congregations were generous as they could be, but they too faced hard times. As kids, we learned that digging through the back seat of the car for change could be fun, because Mom turned it into a treasure hunt.
Mom always looked elegantly attired, but spent less on clothes than anyone I have ever known. She could repurpose old clothes, make used clothes new, and put together combinations that worked. And when we had only onions and a few potatoes to eat, she would call it “cowboy stew” and we would eat it on the floor of the living room like a picnic.
Mom could make the hospital visitors’ room enjoyable. This is much harder than you might think as the choices of literature there were limited for a child, the chairs molded seventies plastic, and the decor Stalinist. There were no portable entertainment devices, but Mom could read a magazine and find the humor in it.
I am laughing just now about a glue bottle and “wrestling with it” . . . an image that somehow became positively Pythonesque with her wicked wit. As to overly long church services (sorry Dad), she could lighten those as well. The day she created (pens and the church bulletin were enough) “Judging You” nametags as alternatives for the usher’s “Serving You” was very good . . . but so were the sketches of the foibles of the ministry. She was a church cartoonist for an audience of two.
Mom loves us, but has never been just our mom.
Mom never got submerged in the “mom thing.” She never minded if other men and women became valuable mentors. We knew she had a life outside of being our Mom. Empty nest syndrome? We worried about missing her . . . not that she would pine away for us. The woman that tried to make us spend a weekend learning all we could about Japan, because it was so interesting was not going to mope. Somewhere there is a church basement containing a fine antique piece of furniture that she can rescue and make beautiful. Somewhere there is a young person who needs her advice. Somewhere there is a gloomy hospital waiting room to turn into a party.
I rise up and call her happy, human, and flourishing.
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