and the winner is...
My mom used to hate Mother’s Day Sunday. She liked Mother’s Day, just not at church and absolutely dreaded going that one-day of the year. When I grew up, the powers that be voted every year on the “best” mother and presented her with a gift in front of the congregation. I remember it always made mom sad that my grandma never seemed to win, and how they always managed to make her feel inadequate, plain and worth less. I remember her saying how on Father’s Day they always talked about our heavenly Father, but on Mother’s Day they made her feel like a failure. I remember closing my eyes and silently praying… pick my mom, just once. Pick her.
I remember: making my mom a bracelet and earrings at school one year, out of beads and paper clips. I can still see the box I put them in, and the pleasure it gave me when she wore them to church. [I’m a really good mom most days…but I know I would have made every possible excuse not to wear paper clip earrings to church and am thankful Shawna did not craft a pair for me and place me in the position to break her little heart.]
I remember: sitting in the cry room with my mom, little sister, aunt and cousins- often times because mom just felt more comfortable there, or we had run late. I remember how it hurt her when the other ladies commented it was only for babies and would shake their heads as we filed up the stairs anyway.
I remember: feeling spiritually unacceptable because mom kept us home some Sunday nights to spend the time as a family. Since dad was Catholic, it would have meant leaving him home alone and although we were there every Sunday morning for worship and Sunday school, even though mom taught an elementary class, directed a choir & volunteered for VBS and nursery, staying home on Sunday night was worth an occasional reaming from some well meaning soul or two.
I remember: walking home from Jr. High one afternoon the day after Mother’s Day. Mom picked us up along the way, sobbing as she told us the mother of some friends of ours from church had taken her life that day. Mom always thought it was because of those silly best mom awards; said she bet it made her feel like a failure too.
As a kid, I never thought much about what criteria were used to make their annual selections. I thought maybe it was because we kept using the cry room, skipping Sunday nights, or that dad was a Catholic. I even wondered if it was because of those silly paper clip earrings. I know I never understood how they could miss her every year. How they couldn’t see her the way I could and why I was never asked to vote. As the years went by the system was modified to presenting a potted plant to the oldest, newest, moms in the room, or the ones with the most children or the ones who had traveled the longest distance, but she was never old or young enough, and now it really doesn’t matter.
I know in the end it doesn’t mean anything. In the end it’s just a silly token of human recognition. But for this kid, it hurt a bit. Most of all, that it hurt her a lot. I suppose to many other ladies it was simply a random drawing and was forgotten before the chosen returned to their seats, but it always followed us back home and lived with us for a day or two before she could put it behind her for another year.
I never thought she was perfect. Sometimes she made me want to scream. But she knew how to love Jesus and she knew how to love me. She knew all about a contrite heart and the God of mercy and grace. She cried when she took communion and her favorite songs were ones about the cross. She loved His Word and never felt secure in her ability to understand it. She was willing as a little girl to stand up in front of the congregation and tell them every sin she could think of just to have Jesus for her Savior and died believing it was too good to be true that God would really think she was worth the saving.
I gave her a ribbon one year. It said “Best Mom”. I’m not sure she ever really believed it, but that’s just how she was. She never really saw herself like others did. I wish she could have because she might have understood how blessed I was to have her and how much she taught me about loving this daughter of mine.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom-and thanks for keeping the earrings…
I remember: making my mom a bracelet and earrings at school one year, out of beads and paper clips. I can still see the box I put them in, and the pleasure it gave me when she wore them to church. [I’m a really good mom most days…but I know I would have made every possible excuse not to wear paper clip earrings to church and am thankful Shawna did not craft a pair for me and place me in the position to break her little heart.]
I remember: sitting in the cry room with my mom, little sister, aunt and cousins- often times because mom just felt more comfortable there, or we had run late. I remember how it hurt her when the other ladies commented it was only for babies and would shake their heads as we filed up the stairs anyway.
I remember: feeling spiritually unacceptable because mom kept us home some Sunday nights to spend the time as a family. Since dad was Catholic, it would have meant leaving him home alone and although we were there every Sunday morning for worship and Sunday school, even though mom taught an elementary class, directed a choir & volunteered for VBS and nursery, staying home on Sunday night was worth an occasional reaming from some well meaning soul or two.
I remember: walking home from Jr. High one afternoon the day after Mother’s Day. Mom picked us up along the way, sobbing as she told us the mother of some friends of ours from church had taken her life that day. Mom always thought it was because of those silly best mom awards; said she bet it made her feel like a failure too.
As a kid, I never thought much about what criteria were used to make their annual selections. I thought maybe it was because we kept using the cry room, skipping Sunday nights, or that dad was a Catholic. I even wondered if it was because of those silly paper clip earrings. I know I never understood how they could miss her every year. How they couldn’t see her the way I could and why I was never asked to vote. As the years went by the system was modified to presenting a potted plant to the oldest, newest, moms in the room, or the ones with the most children or the ones who had traveled the longest distance, but she was never old or young enough, and now it really doesn’t matter.
I know in the end it doesn’t mean anything. In the end it’s just a silly token of human recognition. But for this kid, it hurt a bit. Most of all, that it hurt her a lot. I suppose to many other ladies it was simply a random drawing and was forgotten before the chosen returned to their seats, but it always followed us back home and lived with us for a day or two before she could put it behind her for another year.
I never thought she was perfect. Sometimes she made me want to scream. But she knew how to love Jesus and she knew how to love me. She knew all about a contrite heart and the God of mercy and grace. She cried when she took communion and her favorite songs were ones about the cross. She loved His Word and never felt secure in her ability to understand it. She was willing as a little girl to stand up in front of the congregation and tell them every sin she could think of just to have Jesus for her Savior and died believing it was too good to be true that God would really think she was worth the saving.
I gave her a ribbon one year. It said “Best Mom”. I’m not sure she ever really believed it, but that’s just how she was. She never really saw herself like others did. I wish she could have because she might have understood how blessed I was to have her and how much she taught me about loving this daughter of mine.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom-and thanks for keeping the earrings…
posted by ret at 11:32 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home