It’s mother’s day and I’m thinking about calling you but these things are not so simple for us. So I’ll probably wait until tomorrow, when it’s safe and all this thought-wrangling makes me tired.
Today our pastor read from 2 Timothy and he spoke of the women in his life who have given him a rich heritage of faith. It made me think of you…how you taught me to pray. How you taught me to love. These things mean more to me now than the seasons of silence.
When you called last week from Arizona to tell me how you walked the rim of the canyon--your voice all full of laughter—I didn’t let myself wonder about it, just enjoyed hearing you that way. And later I am thinking that this must be what mothers and daughters do—call each other from desert places to be an oasis...drink from shared words and let presence nourish. When you talk about walking around the brim and looking over the edge into the deep, I think about how you’ve limned my heart these long years and the sound of your voice across the miles seems a bridge that spans that divide.
And I think about how you loved me. How you brought me into this world just as your own mother was dying; how you nursed me and nursed her and I wonder how that long and tired goodbye might have changed things.
I am listening to the new music my sons gave me this morning—all wrapped in pink tissue paper—and I am missing my mother. I want to say how much I love you…how grateful I am that you haven’t stopped trying to bridge this canyon.
Maybe I’ll tell you tomorrow.
This post is part of The 1000 Moms Project: