Missing Out? 8 May 2014

Today would have been my mom's 57th birthday.

Mom (and Essie) blows out candles on the cake I made for her 38th birthday

This year, it comes three days before the now-dreaded Hallmark Holiday called "Mothers' Day," which after my four years of grief would be better named "Rub It in Your Face That You're Sad Day."  Rub it in your face that not only I, but also my husband, no longer have a mom.  Rub it in your face that my friend was supposed to celebrate Mother's Day as a mom this year, but because her baby died, she won't.  Rub it in your face that the little boy across the street has a mother who only comes by his house every couple of weeks to raid the frig...and he doesn't even really notice when she's gone.  Rub it in your face that my dear friend longs to be a mother, to be married, to be cherished by her own little family, but yet-again this year she hasn't met Mr. Right.

So I make a wide berth around greeting card aisles this time of year, ignore advertisements that glibly invite "Celebrate Mom!" and wrestle with whether to attempt attending church on Mother's Day.  And I feel sad.  And angry.

And I've been feeling sad and angry on various levels for four years--ever since I discovered that "bad stuff" can happen to me and to those I love.  Now I'm more aware of bad stuff happening all over the world, too, and the weight of grief and anger for the injustices and brokenness of the world is heavy.  Which brings me to a realization I started having while lying in bed at 11 p.m. last night.

I think I've been clinging to my right to be angry.

In my quest to break free from my culture's stifling you-have-three-days-of-allowed-bereavement and don't-cry-in-public and you're-not-over-that-yet? attitudes, I've tried to be open about my feelings, embrace the reality of pain, and encourage others to be honest with God about their anger and sadness.  Just look at this blog!  Over 1/3 of my posts since beginning two years ago are labeled with grief, sadness, crying, or death.

This has been--and is--important.  But am I now so focused on the need to work through grief that I've lost focus on the greater need to be whole?

"Gee Rachel," you might be thinking, "it's been over a month since you blogged last and this is what you show up to write about?  We want to hear about your music job!  How are Jay, G, and Z?  Made any ridiculously-large batches of food lately?  Why so philosophical today?  Oh, it must be because it's your mom's birthday."  Actually, that's only partially true.  The real answer to this morning's frame of mind has to do with those other questions you asked, so let me back up a bit. 

April 28th was the last day of my wage-earning job as a church music director.  The very next day, Z got the flu.  Three days after that, G got the flu.  (Thanks for waiting for me, guys.)  So I came off four months of being absolutely in my element in an office outside my house with adults away from Mom Duty to a week and a half of being glued to my house with sick kids.  Moreover, their school class schedule is different this week, so we've been given extra homeschooling work.  From half-time professional to full-time mom/nurse/homeschool teacher.  Brutal.  I'm not making light of this; it's been rough.

Yesterday evening, wandering listlessly around the house after a day of homeschooling, washing sheets, doing dishes, finding food that would tempt an indisposed child, and being sick of trying to pass any remaining downtime with Facebook and television, I picked up a book that had been sitting untouched on my nightstand for months.  I'm not even sure how it showed up there.  (If you loaned it to me, speak up and I'll return it to you when I'm done reading it.)

Ann Voskamp's One Thousand Gifts looks boring on the cover, honestly, and it's a pretty generic title.  I only picked it up last night because I was tired of muttering to myself, "I'm bored."  Turns out, the book isn't boring.  It's about the journey of a stay-at-home mom with grief skeletons in her closet, struggling to get out of bed every day, and sick and tired of not having a full, whole, joyous life.

It sounded a little too familiar.

When I put the book down at 11 p.m. and Jay turned off the lamp, I had a lot of questions for myself in the dark.  What do I want?  Am I letting my right to grieve hold me back from joy in the present?  Are daydreams of Someday Success cheating me out of Today?  Are there wholeness and health in the daily doldrums?  What if I make peace with the pain?  Will I just be given more pain and more humdrum, or could making peace make more space for goodness?  At least if I'm braced for pain I'm not caught off-guard when it happens.  But am I watching out more for blows than I am on the lookout for beauty?

I fell asleep and dreamed that my mom had decorated the house for Christmas in October and that I was practicing a fantastic soprano part for a women's quartet.  I woke up five hours later, feeling surprisingly rested, but with the night's questions still swirling in my mind.

Now the sun is up; the boys are getting out cereal and I need to pour milk in bowls and get started on their homework and sort the laundry.  Life is happening, whether I'm geared up for it or not.  Today, I miss my mom--I miss our moms; and I'm starting to ask myself, What else am I missing?