Mother's Day me

When I was growing up, an icon or two hung on our walls. My Dad had grown up Catholic (schools and all), left the Church after Vatican II for the resulting loss of beauty and mystery, dabbled with the Orthodox, the Episcopalians, the Quakers, and never found another religious home. His spiritual home was community and nature, really from age 11 when he had an epiphany on the shores of Lake Michigan. Mom has always held truths lightly and in that era was willing to experience all the dabbling.

And an icon remained. Until my sister sent me a photo of it, I didn't remember who it was (ohhh, THE icon) and never knew why this had meaning for Dad, what she pointed him to. And she was there.

I now have two children and their two children with saint names and their icons on their walls, with meaning and ritual: Catherine the scholar who faced down the Council, Anne the mother who loved and taught, Morwenna who chose to live strenuously in service to a community not her own by birth, and Thaddaeus who seems to have lived and brought miracles.

My words have drifted away as my own religious beliefs have simplified to a power that works in the world creating, renewing, and offering opportunities toward hope and against despair.

I read many words and love them. Buechner posits that Jesus remained silent before Pilate because no words are enough (and he had already told all his stories, which were as good as words could do). Brian Doyle magically describes this presence with as many words as he possibly can (creative and curious and tireless and nameless and holy wild silent....), none of them a set creed. In this moment, my words have faded away.

I have, however, icons. My icons are people in my life, more than those from history. Those bring deep meaning as well - but the ones I hold closest are people who are real and have been real in this small life. They remind me. My husbands, men of integrity and passions. My parents, who care (cared) about connecting to the world. 

Family, with self-deprecation and corny jokes and building up and shared knowledge of our formations. 

Friends from youth, with fierce loyalty and laughter and love of freedom. 

Friends from ministry years, with devotion and tears and belly laughs and faith.

And the cats, of course, with their instincts to bask and to play.

And my children. They have been unexpected, awe-inspiring, life-bringing. Twenty and thirty years ago they pointed me to simple hearts, trusting love, instinctive protectiveness of frailty, the crashing weight of that trust and frailty, what touch can mean to human skin and spirit, the power of love expressed. 

Ten years ago they pointed me to strength, persistence, possibilities, starting over, keeping what is good from the past, making choices for the future. 

Today, having grown from four to ten-plus, they point, all of them, toward conscious choice in the face of despair, sun and sea and green and mountains, music, the Spirit that works through people connected in farmer markets and libraries and choirs and game groups and classes and congregations and theatres and breweries and companies, the need to keep thinking, the cleansing that comes from picnics and laughter and tears together, the life that comes from stories and long-gone icons.

They are among the gifts that I never knew I wanted or needed, now mothering and fathering and bringing into being their own gifts.

There are no words.