It is almost a week since Canadian Mother’s Day – another milestone without our girl. I do not remember Mother’s Day when growing up as a prominent event – maybe in South Africa it, like Halloween, wasn’t on the annual calendar. But I do remember my dad viewing Mother’s Day as another opportunity for commercial profit and Hallmark’s proliferation…so as children I think we must have crafted our own cards!
Nonetheless, in the absence of a special day for appreciating my mother, my love and admiration of her have always run deep – and my feelings have intensified over the years. For my mother is loved by everybody – even those who meet her for the first time for a mere few minutes are instantly captivated by her grace, her humility, her compassion, her quiet wisdom and warmth. She personifies the true Christian spirit. Her engagement with people is genuine and deep; she can recall meeting our friends from years previously and recaptures their stories and lives with more accurate detail than we can - and her remembering and observing of people’s birthdays is unprecedented. And when you meet her for the first time she will shake your hand with a surprisingly vice-like grip for her petite frame (no fish handshakes she taught). Her ministry is in letter writing, a dying art, executed with beautiful script; my children regularly receive personal letters from her – often with Canadian dollars tucked inside.
But it is her optimism and resilience that are for me her profound legacy. In the past 2 years, well into her eighties, she has endured 2 bouts of cancer including 2 major surgeries and daily 4-hour commutes to undertake the chemo and radiotherapy. I never heard a complaint uttered; instead each conversation would yield gratitude for the NHS, for mercies granted, for people’s kindness and for improving health. Within months of her treatment she was tramping the Pembrokeshire coastal paths once again and doing her exercises up and down the St David’s cathedral steps. Ten days before the loss of her youngest grandchild, she lost her own brother. Yet in spite of all this difficulty and sadness she has sustained us with words of encouragement, happy memories of the time spent with Erin in her last week, and a gentle and empathetic listening ear. She quite simply is radiant in her love and positive energy. I see so much of my departed daughter in her – the bright cheerfulness, the tough resilience and the formidable physical endurance.
Three years ago we visited my mom over the Christmas period and I was gripped by an overwhelming sense of sadness of one less Christmas to be spent with her. I reflected on how feeling someone’s loss in advance should change the way we live our lives in the present. It was thus a time of rich appreciation of all that she is and a deep enjoyment of all our activities together. There is deep irony that I realize I was lamenting the loss of the wrong person – and that my then 4 year old daughter would be the one whose absence we would mourn 3 Christmases hence.
So as I reflect on the significance of Mother's Day I am somewhat on the side of my dad; Mother's Day with its focus on appreciation, the sacrifice and hard work of motherhood has never me seemed to me to quite ring true. Perhaps in part this is because a separate Mother’s Day does not seem necessary because my children have shown appreciation each and every day – through their regular thank yous; obedience; thoughtfulness, the joy of shared lives together and through our daily ‘I’m grateful for…’ at dinner time. But also it is because each and every second of my children’s lives has been such a great joy and serving them is life’s greatest pleasure. There is nothing about motherhood that has been onerous to me - nor has it felt a chore. Even Erin’s vast ability at destruction and untidiness provided me some perverse joy in observing her creativity and playfulness. I’d enter my dressing room to see my clothes once again ripped from their hangers and would watch admiringly as my girl adorned herself in a magnificent new manifestation of attire. The laundry provided satisfaction as I appreciated the variation of the girl pinks and purples swirled in with the boy reds and blues. I’ll admit even the Erin battles with hair, homework and piano practicing buoyed in me a secret admiration for her independence, assertiveness and ability to challenge the status quo. Me in my girl - how gratifying to celebrate the perpetuation of my genes!
So Mother’s Day this year opened with breakfast in bed made by my boys; kayaking in the morning with a friend, lunch with long-standing South African friends and a Mother’s Day dinner with the extended family of a friend who has embraced a new role as my sister. And it was good: the communion, the connection, the belonging.
Over the years the joy of Mother’s Day for me has been in the surprise hand-crafted gifts and cards made at school: a geranium in a decorated pot from pre-school still flowering; pinch-pots with fingerprints etched in the clay and clumsily painted; a handmade box with imprinted handprints and 3 years ago 2 identical cards which both children brandished with a completed sentence stating (once again) that ‘My mom is…'38 years old'! This year Cameron presented me with a beautiful oil painting that belied his claim that he is not artistic. But deep inside that ache, that longing and that emptiness peeked in because I did not have that handmade token, lovingly crafted, and a card from my girl with the penmanship of a burgeoning 8 year old providing a statement of love and connection. I never will again.
But the rich memories of being mother of an exceptional daughter will always prevail. And I will always be the mother of a daughter – even if for just less than a short eight years.
So in honour of all women and of all mothers I salute you - each and every day of the year!