Years ago there was a sweet service for women. It was created to speak to those tender spots around motherhood that are perhaps overshadowed by a bower of roses. For some people, Mother's Day hurts. Either they lost a baby, or miscarried, or never conceived at all. Others struggled through failed adoptions, or the death of a grown child. 

 

I played a song that I wrote at a time when mothering was weighty. The words from Isaiah were my life raft as I was thrashed around by the failure and frustration. 

 

 

As chance would have it, the hours before I arrived at the church were swollen with angst. Benjamin was tense, which bled into my state of mind too. His self harm was minimal,  but the PTSD of past incidents comes unbidden. I wasted a day worrying that he would erupt like a volcano. 

 

The women who created the event brought their gifts of compassion. It was a feminine evening: poetry, reflective piano pieces, candle light, quiet readings, chocolate.

 

As I sat waiting to sing I looked at the marvelous wood carvings around me. Such detail in each of the petals, and curved patterns. What masterful hands found these beauties hidden within the wood? How many decades have they stood guard alongside the altar? Then I gazed at the back of the cathedral. There is a thirty foot stained glass window of the Woman Clothed with the Sun, perched on top of the moon. The waning light filtered through her, with its soft glow. She seemed pleased that these women had gathered here to honor motherhood, even the scary part. She herself was acquainted with fear, in that a dragon lay in wait to consume her baby. Her son was safe, in the end, though no doubt there were tears and probably screams. 

 

Mothering does seem to come with its share of anguish. Pain enough to obliterate the devotion, at times.

 

 

But as I sat there, a guitar in my lap, I remembered. "Yes, yes. I do love him."