A Mother's Day Tale

I bought two Mother's Day cards last week. Analyzing words, sentiments, colors on envelopes, I made choices and left the store. Driving home, my thoughts spooled back to another Mother's Day, the first one after my own mother died. I had stopped to buy a card for my mother-in-law, but as truth wedged its way into outstretched hand, a hand ready to choose, I fled, tears streaming down cheeks. My mom is dead! I can't buy her a card! There were other firsts; birthday, Christmas, anniversary of death. They came and went, as did swells of tears, crawling through anguish, loneliness, grief. I missed my mom. Over the years, I worked through loss and other untamed emotions wedged in this heart of mine. Lately, while counting graces and gifts, I understand that without my mom, I would only be a blank name card. A fleeting thought of possibilty. Motherhood, a sacrifice with stretch marks, that is what it is. Pure, honest, sacrifice. Can she hear me say thank you through these long years, does she careen ear toward earth, listening for child to respond, to appreciate sacrifice? To release expectations and raise palm toward acceptance and love? What if mother's never truly leave? What if they bury themselves in our deepest needs, our sorrows and triumphs, can we hear them through darkness and our fears? When resentment and inner anger fades into wind, after long journey back home to trust and gratitude, Jesus settles into heart and says, there, there, that is a mother's love. She gave to you. Isn't that enough? Did her best. It is always enough. These conversations are strong like tsunami and leave me humble, satiated, awestruck. Jesus adjusted the focus and through the lens a strong woman appeared, eyes bright with love and best, most she can do. Always, that is always good way to see, through eyes that hold tight to gratitude. I'd like to think that someday I'll be sitting in heaven, maybe on a cloud that smells like eucalyptus, and we'll high-five, my mom and me. Her mother, and the others before, their seeds planted long ago, growing for generations yet to come. We might sing collectively, a symphony of peace. All of these mothers, a gift that truly keeps giving.

 Heart that beats to loves strong cry, I rehearse words, ready for the day. They play on my tongue, rolling over again, as I practice what I long to declare. Thank you, Mom. You did your best and your best was enough for me.

A December Day With Johnny Depp

She called me on Sunday to tell me the news, my friend she did. Sick from cancer they told her, that's why she hurt. She had to drop out of book group, her reason for calling. "Please tell others I can't make it anymore." I gulped hard. One week later, cradling the phone to my ear, words traveled through the line I heard. She was ready to die, my friend she said. "I've lived a good life, I'm 80 years old," an affirmation of a contented soul. Sadness bruised my heart. But I'm not ready for you to go. Three weeks after that first call, she passed and my mind spun backward to last December, and how I had almost said no to Johnny. And no to my friend. A cold, gray day in December's rush. My back hurt and gravitating toward fear and selfishness, I conjured excuses in my brain. Preparing for Christmas, one more thing seemed insurmountable. Daunting  even. Minutes passed, then oh yes, heaven stretched its graceful arms, inscribed a missive upon my heart, like a 3x5 cue card it read: "Love never gives up. Love cares more for others than for self." Images of library books she delivered to my door and key-lime cookies at Christmas sealed the deal. Wrestling fear and selfishness to the ground, I pinned weak excuses to floor. Yes, I said, I would love to come over and take your picture with Johnny. Later that day, we propped him up against the wall, snapped numerous shots, various poses, lighting changes. Slants of weak winter light glistened on sword. He looks so devilishly delightful as a pirate, I mused. We giggled like high-schooler's at prom. Fun, I thought, she loves fun. And adores Johnny Depp. Weeks after the photo shoot, I retrieved the Christmas postcard from mailbox. Beautiful. Ignoring inner critic, the voice that says maybe-you-could-have-done-better, I gave a nod to spirit. To friends, to life. And to my dear friend who laughed, traveled the world, got a tattoo in her seventies. During her funeral mass, mention of Johnny caused my eyes to well. A tight breath expelled into sad room. My gaze scanned the coffin adorned in lovely cloth, and I loved her in my heart space. Silently I whispered thanks to Johnny Depp and the December day I will never regret. And to friends who accompany us along our way, yes I gave thanks.