I never knew true love, exhaustion, excitement, heartbreak, joy, confusion, sadness, or gratitude on a monumental scale until I became a mother. I don't know why it is, but even when your children defy your authority, ignore your request, smother you with love, obey your rules, or throw you under the bus, you still love them and would walk through a hail of bullets for them, even when they think you won't. Mike had a rough night last night and it was apparent I wasn't going to sleep anytime soon, so I finally got up at 3:30 to make a cup of cocoa. I've been working my way through four seasons of Downton Abbey online and sat down to finish the episode I'd stopped when I went to bed. I love Cora, the mother of Mary, Edith, and Sybil. She reminds me of myself when I've watched my girls growing and learning, accomplishing life goals and becoming young ladies in their own right.
So I sat in the dark in the kitchen, at the table, all the lights in the house out, drinking my hot cocoa, watching the episode where Sybil gives birth. Sometimes in shows or movies, you can gather clues throughout the story or the episode that clue you in on something coming around the bend. I was not prepared for Sybil to die after giving birth, but she did die, with her entire family in the room witnessing it. Cora's fear and grief were so PALPABLE. Clutching Sybil's hand and crying desperately for her baby. So raw and deep and aching and I absolutely sobbed. Not because I was caught up in the story, but I was seeing a "mother" facing the unspeakable horror: Losing a child. It didn't matter that I was watching an actress portray the emotion. It made me face that in my own mind. I pray that nightmare never comes to visit at my door, but we mothers play that over in our minds. What would we do? Would we collapse, or stoically set our jaw and soldier on despite the grief? I have had friends who lost a child and my thought was, "There but for the grace of God go I."
Back in the early 90's I read Elizabeth Glaser's book about contracting HIV through a tainted blood transfusion when giving birth to her daughter, Ariel, who died very young from AIDS, and then Elizabeth followed several years later. I was no where NEAR as strong as my walk with the Lord as I am now, and the book terrified me. Katherine was two or three years old at the time and I was absolutely delighting in my darling little girl, so petite and beautiful and funny. The thought of losing her then was paralyzing, but I have learned so much about faith in God and knowing to trust Him with my girls. When I was given a diagnosis of cancer four years ago, my first thought was, "What about my girls?" The Lord spoke to my heart and showed me, "I created them, I knew about them before you did, and I placed them in your womb. I love them so much more than you ever can because My love is that of having created them. Do not fear for them if you come Home to Me because I am there to walk them through life when you can't." Opening up my hands and letting the reigns go to Him was freeing and peaceful, yet seeing Cora in her raw grief reminded me of how deep and consuming a mother's heart really is.
I think about the rough and rocky roads I've traveled with Katherine, there's a lot of pain there, on both sides, and a lot of laughter and joy. No one can break your heart like a child, and no one can mend a broken heart like a child. I'm watching her work her way through life, growing as a wife, leaving the Navy behind, embarking on whatever future she goes after. For an admitted control freak, I have made my mistakes when I tried to step in and go, "You did what? You dyed your hair pink and you're getting out of the Navy and going to be looking for a job WITH PINK HAIR and a nose stud??" I have had to learn to walk that fine line between wanting to offer advice (let's face it, not offering advice but trying to impose MY blueprints for her life on her) and standing back with folded hands and quiet lips and let her make the mistakes you KNOW are coming, yet you promise yourself to stifle those words that may come back to bit you on the butt: "I told you so." This period of my life with her is like being the Mars rover: A lot of people watching this strange little vehicle bouncing along over rocks and sand and seeing things that make you go, "Wow," and then victory! There's an unexpected photo of some amazing area on the planet and you surprised everyone, most of all yourself. I have learned to put all my fears and worries and hopes in my cupped hands, and then raise those hands to Him with the words, "Here you go, Father. She's yours and I love you and I love her and I only ask that you make sure she sees how much I truly do love her and I'm not her enemy. God, just keep us safe. Please show her that unconditional love means she must do NOTHING in order for me to love her, but unconditional love does NOT mean unconditional acceptance of everything she does or every decision she makes."
If Cora were a real woman, and I could actually speak to her, my words would be this: "It's going to be alright. Take my hand and we will cry together, but everything will turn out alright, and maybe I'll come back with another cup of cocoa tonight to watch as you walk through this fire and come out the other side, still able to breathe, function, and still be a mother."
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