We're Just Almost The Same: Life Without Mothers

The presence of a mother is encompassing, there is power in knowing that she is just there.  There is comfort in knowing that she just is.  A mother, with all of her good, her bad, and her ugly, is more of a force than a mere person.

When my mom was suffering from the end stage of cancer, I remember peeking into her room before entering each time.  I would pause, watch her chest rise and fall with each breath, and then enter. She was still there.  When I watched the final breath leave her body, it was as if all of the oxygen in the room went with her, in that last gasp of life. She was all of a sudden, not there.

The loss of a mother is visceral.  The umbilical cord that was cut at birth was the first physical separation, but the tether that holds mother and child remains strong through space and time, throughout life.  When death separates a mother and child, there is a real physical aching.

There was a time when my five year daughter was mourning the loss of her first mother.  She cried, saying,  "I'm losing my mother. I need her to kiss me on the cheek some more. I need her to make me some noodles, and go to the park, and walk by the train tracks."  And I said to her back,  "I'll love you, and hold you close forever, and kiss your cheek, and make you noodles, and I will take you to the park every day until you're old.  While we walk to the park, we can talk about your mother, and we can remember all of the remembers that you have about her.  And I lost my mother too, but in a different way, and I need her to kiss me on the cheek some more too, and I miss her everyday too."

My daughter replied: "You lost your mother too? We're just almost the same."  

We are all, just almost the same.

I've been thinking and talking a lot about what Glennon says. "There is no such thing as other people's children."  I believe this with my whole heart.  The children that are in my life, the ones that have passed through, the ones who will be with me until my final breath, or theirs, all of them, are all of my heart.

They are all, just almost the same.  Children of my body, children of my heart.

Two of the children that lived in my home, and in my heart, are now gone. One murdered by gun violence, and one lost to suicide.  Both young teenagers.  I mourn along with their families, and I tell their stories, because their stories should be part of all of our stories.

Our stories are all, just almost the same.

But these two stories in particular: the child who loses their mother, and the mother who loses their child - these are two of the greatest, tragic love stories that life ever wrote.

In the moment that I became motherless, in the moment where all of the oxygen left the room,  I knew that a child should never live without a mother.  It is a most sacred honor to be a mother to the motherless.   But although there is no such thing as other people's children, I'm not sure it works so naturally the other way.  A mother is a mother is a mother.  My mother.  My tether.  Her mother.  Her tether. I can't be the first mother to my daughter who misses her first mother; there is no replacement for that.   But I hope and pray that I can be the best first, second, other, birth, adoptive, foster mother that I can be.   Because once I was taught to be mother, to all of the children, by my mother.

We are all, just almost the same.  Because love.

Be Still: When The Still Small Voice Isn't Still or Small

Be still and listen.

Be still and know.

Beautiful words and sentiments, except that me and "being still" don't really get along that well.

Still is my uncomfortable zone.

Being still sounds glorious, and I often long for the chance to experience it.  However, every time it gets near, my emotional immune system rejects it like a virus, like it is a foreign body trying to infiltrate my being.  I seem to have antibodies that won't allow "being still" to exist for long periods of time in my life.

I get along better with change and newness.  My comfort zone is a moving target.  Every time that my life starts to settle in, every time that it starts to feel comfortable, it makes me uncomfortable.

There is  a restlessness stirring in me.  My still, small voice is yelling at me, because it doesn't want to be still or small.

So I pray for discernment, because I struggle with the concept of being still.  I sometimes wonder if I need to move out of my comfort zone by staying still, and being still; but I suspect that my still, small voice was just born to be ornery and loud.

I think that there is a fine line between being still and being stagnant.  There is a difference between listening to the still, small voice and being a still, small voice.  Stillness intentionally layered within
a full life is like the "rest" between musical phrases, as the song continues to move forward.  The
"rests" of stillness makes the song meaningful, purposeful, and beautiful.  In contrast, stillness at the end of the song means, well, the song is over, and the music has died.  As I take my rest, I know that it is a pause, but that the song will continue to crescendo.

Be still and listen for a time.

Be still and know that the song will continue.

Be still so that you can move forward again, not so you can stay.

#loveshowsup

I have a lot to say about #loveshowsup right now. I am in a hospital for the fifth time with my girl; #loveshowsup has been on my heart and mind during these long weeks.  I've always known that love shows up.  The story starts when I was young,  pinnacles during some intense times as a foster parent a few years back, and continues now and forever amen.

I'm going start at the pinnacle.  The day I experienced the visceral truth of what it means to show up for a child. The day I experienced the crushing weight of what it means to not show up for a child. 

As a foster parent, my presence at court hearings was not always mandatory. But I always got an invitation.  And by receiving an invitation to be present, I couldn't not be present.  Showing up for those court hearings for my babies was like showing up for prenatal doctor appointments for my babies.  Of course you go, of course you show up, there isn't another option.  

I have been a foster parent for many years now. I've been in court rooms many, many times for many, many kids. From my seat in the back, my view is usually this: a scattered line of county case workers, county attorney, child's attorney, mother, mother's attorney, father, and father's attorney. I always capture the image of these people in my mind, like a snapshot. 

I am the foster parent, the one who is currently caring for the child that we are all in the courtroom to make decisions for. I sit in the back of the courtroom because legally, I have no voice. This story and this scene is not about me; it is about trying to reunite this child with the people he belongs with.  So I sit in my seat, stare at the back of these heads and pray that this lineup of folks in the front makes good decisions for the child.

One day,  I sat in my seat, and watched as the important characters in the story started showing up . I looked down the line and checked off each player from the roster in my mind. Caseworker, check. Attorney, check. And on I went, further down the line. My eyes reached the end of the line. 

The space where the parents usually stand was empty. No check. Empty space. “A” for absent. A void in a place where there should NEVER be a void. No one was there to fight for him. No parents. I wanted to see someone standing in that void, fighting for him. Because that's what he deserved,  that's what every child deserves.

It took my breath away.

I watched the judge step out of his chambers, and I saw a look on his face that perfectly reflected what I felt in my heart. It was a slight shake of the head, mixed with disappointment, and pure sadness. I could almost see the word “Damn” form on his lips.  He was clearly heartbroken by the void in that space.  You could see that he wanted for there to be someone standing there, with tears in their eyes, begging him to have their baby back. But there was no one. For This Child No One Showed Up.

From the back, I wanted to stand up and shout, with tears in my eyes, “HERE I AM. I WILL FIGHT FOR HIM. I WILL BEG YOU WITH MY WHOLE HEART TO LET ME BE HIS MOMMA. I WILL STAND IN THAT VOID, I WILL BE HIS VOICE.” But they tell me that standing up and shouting at the judge could get you arrested. 

So I channeled the still, small voice inside me, and I continued to watch and pray, as people who have never seen his sweet face or heard his sweet laugh made decisions for his future.

I believe that the best and bravest thing we can do, for any of our kids, is to Just. Show. Up. And while most of us don’t have to show up in a court room, we need to show up for the  everyday moments,  which is sometimes harder . 

We must make those daily, intentional choices to continue to be present for those we love. Some days it’s so hard, you just want to hide in the bathroom, or even get in the car and drive away. But as brave parents, friends, and family members, we must continue to show our faces; we must continue to show up, even if we have little or nothing to offer at that particular moment. We are our child’s voice, our we are the ones that can stand up and shout for them (Unless you are in a courtroom. DON'T DO IT.) Every child deserves someone to stand in that void and to fill that gap that often stands between him and the world.

In the eyes and in the life of a child, you might make all the difference, just in the showing up.  Communing with your people matters.  You might not make a difference, and you might not change the outcome.  In fact, you probably won't, because it's not about you.  But your people will remember, that you were there, in the back row, shouting for them with all your heart.

#loveshowsup #foreverandever #amen