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.