The Most Unnatural Natural Task of Motherhood: Letting Go

When did it happen? Was it after they laid you on my chest and you slid toward my cheek, slimy and covered in vernix, and I felt your warmth and smelled your wonder. And then they whisked you away to check you and make sure all your parts were working and I wanted to say, "No, not yet." But I didn't.  I let go.

Or when I passed you over the half-door of the nursery to a grandmotherly figure who assured me you would be just fine and I glanced back over my shoulder as I walked away, wishing I could stay with you, just in case you cried. But I went to church, instead.

With each little accomplishment, like feeding yourself, or taking steps unassisted, or climbing out of your crib, you won small victories in your quest for independence and I took small steps toward my journey of letting go of you.

There were those Kodak moments for sure of you singing your first solo, getting on the school bus for the first time, and your first sleep-over at a friends that gave me practice at something I both celebrated and made me cry.

The stakes seemed even higher when I turned over the keys to the car, said good-bye to you on a date with a boy I didn't know, extended your curfew and stayed awake, praying in the night for your safety and that you would make wise choices.

When we loaded up a van from floor to ceiling and then carried all its contents up three flights of stairs into your first dorm room, and drove away, leaving you behind and returning to a house with an empty room, I felt the severing more profoundly than ever--a throb so deep and right that I couldn't argue with it; I just had to accept it.

I watched you as you met your bride at the head of the aisle, all grown up and handsome, marrying the girl you'd told me at the age of six you would marry some day because you were a family man--and I knew my task was, for the most part, complete.

And now, though you're on your own, living a full life, and working hard, you still return to me--sometimes when life is disappointing, or someone breaks your heart or you need a back rub, or you just need a mom. In those moments, I can feel confused because I want to hang on; to be indispensable. But I know I can't and I'm not.

All along the way and even now, motherhood has asked of me a very unnatural thing--to let go of you. Nothing about it has ever felt good and yet everything about it is. I look at you today, so accomplished and self-assured, and I see why.  

You're really quite amazing. 

The Dilemma of Having Choices: My First (and last?) Visit to Earth Fare

I shopped at a new grocery store this week called Earth Fare--one that carries mostly organic and high quality produce and products. This visit was inspired by the fact that I had an eye doctor appointment not far from the grocery and I had just gotten an amazing cookbook for my birthday from my kids called Sprouted Kitchen with all kinds of amazing recipes I wanted to try--many of them requiring organic, whole foods.

In addition, I had also attended an event this week that featured postmodern theologian Peter Rollins, urban organic farming and health proponent Laura Henderson of Growing Places Indy, and my friend, singer and song-writer, Liz Janes. They inspired me to think about what it means to live a more honest, healthy and grounded life in my community.

So this swirl of experiences came to a head this week when I visited Earth Fare. And then I felt this dilemma: the dilemma of having choices to shop at places like Earth Fare; to buy organic produce and be so particular about food.

I was well aware of my privilege as I shopped in this upscale grocery store and chose more expensive organic products (at least some--others, I couldn't bring myself to pay the price). And I felt the quandary, the friction of values between my love and pleasure in wholesome, clean foods and my awareness of the poor in my neighborhood who struggle to put food on their tables--much of which has been purchased by food stamps.

I also read a passage of Scripture this week that became another ingredient in this compost of experiences and reflections and it nudged me to consider how I might reconcile them--well, maybe.   


"God’s light came into the world, but people loved the darkness more than the light, for their actions were evil. All who do evil hate the light and refuse to go near it for fear their sins will be exposed. But those who do what is right come to the light so others can see that they are doing what God wants." (John 3:19-21)

The phrase that stood out to me was "come to the light." Those who do what is right...come to the light. 

As I have wallowed in this predicament of privilege and caring for the poor, what does it mean for me to come to the light? 

Long term, I sense that moving toward the light means working for the day when rich and poor alike will eat clean foods and live healthier lives. I also think that planning simple meals, not wasting food and not eating more than I need will help with with the dilemma of my daily choices. 

So, for me, this issue is far from resolved and I suspect that that is a good thing. Dilemmas serve a purpose; they get us to think and ask important questions; they keep our conscience active and sensitive to the things hidden in our hearts--the things that light exposes.  

Resurrection Sunday: Looking for the Living Among the Dead

As Luke's account of Jesus' resurrection was read this morning, the words that caught me up were those spoken to the women at his tomb. They came with spices in hand, ready to prepare Jesus' dead body for burial. Then suddenly, two angels appeared to them and asked a peculiar question. "Why are you looking for the living among the dead?" (Luke 24:5)

Our pastor noted what an odd question this was for the angels to ask them. The answer was clear. These women weren't looking for the living among the dead. They were looking for the dead among the dead!

Those words stuck with me. They reminded me that the declaration of Easter is the fact that, because Jesus rose from the dead, we can look for the living among the dead; for life in the midst of death!

All I need to do is review my life and see the truth of this. Times when I experienced real death, like the death of my father from cancer, I see how I also found life. Or times when a relationship appeared to be dying, I found the gift of life in the tearing down and rebuilding of it. Or once when I took a personal blow that felt like it would end in death, I discovered instead the gift of life, buried deeply in the tomb of my soul.

Resurrection Sunday is a day to celebrate that we can, indeed, look for the living among the dead because Jesus rose from the dead, whole and full of life!

Holy Saturday: Keeping Vigil at the Tomb

I've witnessed the death of both of my parents. While much of the experience is a blur to me now, I have a very distinct memory of standing at the graveside next to each of their caskets, in those final moments before they were lowered into the ground. I still remember what it felt like; the final letting go of them. It was a singular low point, a death in and of itself, in my journey of grief.

Today is Holy Saturday, the middle day between the death and resurrection of Jesus. As I read Matthew's account of his burial, I noticed his reference to Mary Magdalene and the other Mary sitting across from the tomb and watching, while Joseph of Arimathea buried Jesus' body in the tomb.


I imagine them feeling some of what I felt at the graveside of each of my parents--the last dregs of energy drained from them as they watched Jesus' body laid to rest. Perhaps, deep within,  they did believe and hope in his resurrection. Yet, they were human and more than likely felt that vacuous grief that one feels in death as they kept vigil at his tomb.

It requires courage to embrace the darkness of the tomb and let go. To enter the darkness of not knowing and accept the finality of the moment. To keep vigil with the two Marys. Holy Saturday.

  

Reflections on Good Friday: Is this the Face of Humiliation? I used to think so.

This morning, I read through John's account of Jesus' betrayal and crucifixion (John 18, 19). It was painful to read. John slowed the story down; he included many details that helped me visualize what Jesus endured. One particular part of the story was especially hard.

After Pilot had Jesus flogged with a metal-tipped whip and the soldiers placed a purple robe and crown of thorns on him, Pilot brought him out to the people. Instead of reacting with compassion when they saw him bloody and beaten, they screamed, "Crucify him!" What a bizarre reaction!

It makes me shudder to witness their lack of pity; their gloating thirst for innocent blood. What is this in our  human heart that sees a pathetic, wounded man and wants to kill him? The same instinct that's in a pack of wild dogs who attack one of their own because he's maimed?

As I read the description of Jesus' mistreatment, I found myself identifying in a way I never used to. I've had my own experience of being attacked, bullied and betrayed by religious leaders. And so what stung most to me in Jesus' experience of suffering was the humiliation that he must have felt....or did he?

I've started to ponder the way that I felt solidarity with Jesus as I identified with what I assumed to be his emotional response of humiliation to all that he endured. But when I began to explore it, it occurred to me that humiliation is a feeling one experiences as a result of pride--wounded pride. It's not really a cousin to humility--the willingness to lower oneself. Humiliation is forced subjection.

This revelation has provided a new lens for me as I stand before the cross today on this Good Friday. I now see Jesus, my Savior, who willingly "humbled himself in obedience to God and died a criminal's death on a cross" (Philippians 2:8). No-I don't think this is the "face of humiliation." It's definitely a humble face.