A Letter to Mom for Mother’s Day

Happy Mothers Day Mom…

I know you won’t read this, because I tried to teach you how to use a computer about five years ago, and it was simply too much for you.  You’re still amazed at the digital picture frame I gave you when you moved into your new room at the retirement center. Maybe I’ll print this out anyway and send it to you, because I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately.

I saw a play last summer that was supposed to be a comedy.  It was about a guy who left New York because he’d gotten the perfect job offer on the west coast.  When he told his family they were flummoxed, incredulous.  ”You can’t leave family.  We’re family here, in New York – this is where we are.  Nobody leaves family.”  Honestly mom, the first part of the play had me laughing because this family on stage – they were mildly dysfunctional in the same ways our was:  obsession over food and entertaining, a little too controlling, everything ‘a big deal’ so that crises rose up even when there were none.  I was laughing, seeing images of our “stuff” on stage.

When the guy was excited about moving, I cheered him on because of course, I moved too.  After died dad my last year of high school, your grief was real, and important, but in spite of that, I was anxious to get on with exploring the world.  So I left,the only one in all of our extended family that left home, just like the guy in the play.

That was 35 years ago, and when I drove north back then, from California to Seattle I was like this:  Good-bye yesterday!  Hello  new life! I thought needed a fresh start or something, and other than a few years for school and a first job, the Northwest has been home every since.  For a long time, I literally couldn’t fathom why everyone else didn’t leave too.  Was I the only one with enough courage to break the bondage and get out?

It was great that Susan was close to you down there, but then, right after we took this pastoral position in Seattle in 95, she died suddenly, of a heart attack.  I was afraid her death would kill you, you took it so hard.  What you’ve been through, mom!  You lost a child in childbirth right after the war and nearly lost your life.  Because you couldn’t have children after that, you adopted; first Susan, then me.  You loved us all.  Then dad dies in 73, you went back to work, and I left in 76.  Then, right after you retire from your job with the city at 75 years old, Susan dies.  Really God, how much grief does one person deserve?

The thing is, though, I’ve watched you all these years.  Through all of it, you’ve always been a servant to others, a sort of good samaritan.  All this loss didn’t cave you in – you just kept serving.  Heck, you bought a four door car when you were 80 so that you could drive out to the retirement home and pick up the ‘old people’ and take them to church.  Hysterical!  A four door at 80.  In spite of all the loss, all the grief – you’ve kept serving those around you.  None were greater beneficiaries of this, I think, than Sue and I.  And of course, now she’s gone, and dad’s gone too.  It’s you and me mom, you and me.

Maybe you can see why, when I watched the play and the protaganist’s parents got sick back in New York, I wept – so hard that I had to work to keep from disrupting the show.  Your values of locality, fidelity, and service, it turns out, are priceless.  I’m so sorry I didn’t see them then.

The picture of you is from when I was down in March and we went to Claim Jumper.  You always loved ribs.  We talked about baseball, and my travels, and saw the rest of the family.  It was good to be together.  And as I was leaving you said, as you always do:  ”I’m so proud of you son, and I pray for you every day, just like I always have.”  I smiled, and kissed you good-bye, and walked out the door and cried.    Happy Mother’s Day.  I’ll see you soon…  and love you more than you can know.