That
was the first thing I noticed when we came in the door, home from our
unanticipated journey.
Mother’s
Day was subdued this year. During the week leading up to it we had
had a grandchild delivered early, in distress, who had not survived
very long. We were awaiting Monday’s word on funeral
arrangements, while we got ready to leave.
Our
ward gave each mother a long-stemmed red rose this year. We left two
days later, and before we did I had taken it out of its vase, cut the
end off fresh, and replaced the water.
I
didn’t know whether it would be gone or not by the time we were
home again the following Sunday night, but I knew it would be dead
quickly if I tried to carry it with us, and I didn’t consider
passing it along to someone else. It would last a week, or it
wouldn’t. But it was mine.
In
my ward growing up, there were always carnations for Mother’s
Day. First the mothers would stand, then all the women who were
grandmothers would remain standing to receive a second carnation,
then those who were great-grandmothers would remain for a third.
I
remember the awe one year when an elderly sister was recognized as a
great-great grandmother. I don’t remember her name because I
barely knew it then, but she was at church regularly, mostly deaf
now, long widowed, deeply wrinkled, and always smiling.
I
doubt that I ever said more than hello to her with a brief stop and a
smile, but she always acknowledged us. Mother’s Day was a
moment of veneration for her, as it should have been.
There
are stages of motherhood. Being a mother is hectic and exhausting,
and uncertain, at the beginning, a juggling act with school kids,
teenagers, and anxious at times with any age. There’s the baby
stage, the early school years, and the chauffeur stage.
Sometimes
the teenagers and babies might even overlap — that’s its
own challenge. It is also filled with delight as our little ones
discover the world with a wonder that we’ve usually forgotten,
and again as they come to wrestle big ideas and significant
principles in their heads. There is so much to teach them, and so
much to share.
It
calls out the best in us at times, and tries us at other times. But
it continues forever, come what may.
I
remember when one of the widows of the ward reached the point when
she needed to sell her house. She was still able to take care of
herself in an apartment, and all three of her children still lived in
the area to offer assistance; it was her oldest daughter’s task
to take her shopping for groceries once a week.
One
week they came to her apartment and parked, and when they approached
the door they found it open. Alarmed, they listened but heard
nothing.
Entering
the apartment with trepidation, the eighty-nine-year-old matriarch
reached into the kitchen and grabbed her cast iron skillet, raising
it up in her right hand, as she thrust her left arm out behind her to
protect her (seventy-year-old) daughter: “Stay back, LaRie!
He might still be inside.”
He
wasn’t, fortunately, and they called the police and assessed
the losses — but the story proves one thing: Once a mother,
always a mother. That instinct to stand between our child and harm
never leaves us.
Motherhood
is an eternal principal. Motherhood is an eternal fact, with no
expiration date.
I
was startled into thought once by reading an account of something by
a woman who was a new mother, facing all the changes in her life and
overwhelming feelings that came along with that.
She
said she knew she would make mistakes, but she was determined that
she would at least make different mistakes than her own mother
had made. I have moments of my mother, but they don’t distress
me. They make me smile.
I
am forever grateful that my best hope was to follow the patterns that
my own mother set for me, but we all seek to help our children by the
things we have learned in our own experience, whatever those might
be.
How
life has changed over the years.
My
red rose stood watch over an empty table; our home is smaller and my
table is now pushed against a wall, under a window, with the leaf
removed because there are no children left to sit around it. Gone
are the days when eight of us squeezed around it in a bigger place —
now there are just the two of us, but we are still parents.
The
rose stood patient, solitary, as mothering does in this stage, but it
stood with grace. It spoke peace to me for a few more days before it
was gone. Its beauty was a tiny tender mercy in a heavy
circumstance.
The
observation has been offered that the loving relationship between a
parent and child is the only one which, if healthy, leads to
separation. Spouses and friends draw closer, but a parent’s
job is to work themselves out of a job, so to speak. Our work will
only bear full fruit over the course of time.
My
mothering was of necessity imperfect because I am imperfect.
Sometimes, I know, my mothering was inadequate because of fear,
fatigue, or misperception; I am grateful to know that the Lord has
the power to redeem my imperfect mothering just as He has the power
to redeem all of my sins and failings.
I
don’t think my children ever doubted my love for them, even if
we hit bumps in our road. Much of what I have worked out and learned
about the process of redemption has been learned along the road of
being a mother, and a wife. Family matters more than all the things
that the world trumpets.
And
that healthy separation process as our children become launched is
only a piece of the story. We all started out as spirit children
together before we came to this world, and our piece of time here is
set as a relay, if you will, as our parents teach us and we teach our
children, and they welcome and teach their children.
As
they grow and establish their own lives and families, they become
peers to us again, and finally eternal friends. That is the most
precious redemption of all.
I
am grateful for good parents, and good children. Bringing our
breaking hearts together to soak up love, faith, and hope, helps them
to mend. May all our hurts be healed, whatever they may be, in the
certainty of present help and eternal promises.
Marian J. Stoddard was born in Washington, D.C., and grew up in its Maryland suburbs. Her
father grew up in Carson City, Nevada, and her mother in Salt Lake City, so she was always
partly a Westerner at heart, and she ended up raising her family in Washington State. Her family
took road trips all over the United States and Canada, so there were lots of adventures.
The adventures of music, literature, and art were also valued and pursued. Playing tourist always
included the local museums as well as historical sites and places of natural beauty. Discussions
at home, around the dinner table or working in the kitchen, could cover politics, philosophy, or
poetry, with the perspective of the gospel underlying all. Words and ideas, and testimony and
service, were the family currency.
Marian graduated from Winston Churchill High School in Potomac, Maryland, and attended the
University of Utah as the recipient of the Ralph Hardy Memorial Scholarship, where she was
graduated with honors, receiving a B.A. in English. She also met the love of her life, a law
student, three weeks after her arrival; she jokes that she had to marry him because her mother
always wanted a tenor in the family. (She sings second soprano.) They were married two years
later and have six children and six grandchildren (so far). She treasures her family, her friends,
and her opportunities to serve.
Visit Marian at her blog, greaterthansparrows. You can contact her at
bloggermarian@gmail.com.
Marian and her husband live in Tacoma, Washington. Together they teach those who are
preparing to go to the temple for the first time, and she also teaches a Stake Relief Society
Institute class.