Mom and Paul.
A few weeks ago, I watched my mom read a story to Grace, the
younger of her granddaughters. The story was Madeline. They sat on the living room floor and read the story
together multiple times, Grace affectionately exclaiming “Madeline!” and
pointing a chubby finger each time the titular character made an appearance (which
was a lot). Every time they finished, Grace would look up, doe-eyed, and mom
would start again from the beginning. I put down my own book to soak the moment
in. I don’t think they noticed me—so lost were they in their love for each
other. It was the kind of scene that you know you’ll want to remember even as
it was happening. It provided a glimpse into a world where everything made
sense, where people radiate love for each other, and grandmothers and
granddaughters fit together like two pieces of a puzzle.
This is a nice world to inhabit, even if only for a little
bit. And it would be easy and comfortable enough to assume this world, the one
of Hallmark Cards and Precious Moments figurines, is my mom’s natural habitat. To
paint her simply as the doting grandmother and sweet church lady who magically
floats above the troubles of the world like a fairy godmother. Whether it’s
softly singing “You Are My Sunshine” to a crying toddler or rushing out late at
night to sit with a neighbor who just lost her husband, she plays this role
like she has been preparing for it her whole life. If I chose to describe her
this way and stop there, I doubt anyone would challenge me.
But I know her too well to do that. I’ve heard the tired
sighs that fall between the phone ringing and her answering cheerfully, seen
the pained eyes on the days when she wakes up early to an empty house and
reminders of who isn’t there. The problem with the image of the sweet loving,
old (NOT THAT OLD!) lady is that it makes it seem like “that’s just the way she
is,” like the generosity and the kindness are part of her DNA, and she doesn’t
know any other way to act. It makes the love seem innate, effortless, and
magical. Which, in a strange way, ends up cheapening it.
I have seen that this kind of love is not magical or dispositional;
it's habitual. It is not gifted so much as it is forged through determination
and concerted effort. It comes from all those moments when it would be easy to
let the phone keep ringing, to assume somebody else would pick up the slack if
she doesn’t help out this one time, to put the story book down because sitting
on the ground is getting uncomfortable. Those moments of choice when the easy path
and the loving path diverge, and we are called to set our jaws and take the
hard way.
She has a Mother Teresa quote taped to the refrigerator
door. It reads “I’ve never had clarity and certitude. I only have trust. I’ll
pray that you trust.”
When dad died, mom did not retreat into a world of passive
grief and comforting platitudes. Instead, she redid the upstairs hallway. Tore
up the carpet. Pried out the staples and tack strips. Scraped off the glue
residue. Stained the hardwood that had lain hidden underneath. When we lost
Paul, she insisted on coming with us to clean out his apartment. Long after I
had given up on getting all of the soap scum off of his shower walls, she kneeled
on the bathroom floor and scrubbed patiently. Maybe the work was a prayer of
thanksgiving for a beautiful life, and a plea for the strength to keep living,
keep scrubbing. Messy. Human. Cleanliness next to godliness. Holiness awful
close to grittiness. Maybe it was just a way to take a step forward, trusting
that there is a way forward. Maybe that’s a prayer too.
Happy Mother’s Day, mom. Happy Mother’s Day to the woman who
teaches me that songs and smiles and magic are nice, but that real love takes
elbow grease.
