Mama Do You Love Me?

Mama, Do You Love Me?

Live Oak, May 13, 2007

Rev. Kathleen Ellis

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.” Most mothers—and fathers— begin a love affair with their children before they are even born. During pregnancy we watch what we eat and drink, modify our activity levels, and grow accustomed to our swelling abdomens and the kicking and squirming that goes on inside. Finally the Birth Day arrives, and through the fog of labor and delivery usually comes relief when a baby appears whole and healthy. When they’re not so healthy, we have to learn to love them as they are and help them reach their full potential.

Mother’s Day can be particularly painful for women like my sister who was unable to conceive. She eventually turned to adoption, and now dotes on several grandchildren. Still, it’s a heartache to her that she couldn’t go through the joy and labor associated with pregnancy.

Other people have painful memories of their own mothers—abuse, neglect, or even abandonment of a child can have devastating effects that last a lifetime. Some mothers and grandmothers are shunned by their own children for far lesser crimes than abuse and we can’t ignore the dismal reality of elder abuse by frustrated adult offspring.

There may well be very good reasons for children and mothers to keep their distance from one another, but the separation itself can be a source of lingering pain. As we grow older, we may have experienced estrangement from our mothers, or they may develop dementia, or we have only our memories of mothers who have died. Mental illness in any one family member can tear whole families apart.

Some people grow up without mothers. For years my step-daughter Karina sent her Papa a Mother’s Day card for his role as both father and mother in his life.

Still, Mother’s Day is not a happy occasion for everyone. But in an ideal world, mothers do their best to love their children no matter what. It’s what we needed whether we got it or not. Often we try to do a better job with our own children, adjusting for some of the mistakes made with us.

My mother was not perfect by any means, but she had a good heart and always tried to do what was right in civilizing three daughters and a son. She gave up a potential career as a concert pianist to marry our father and raise a family. Though she taught first grade for a while, she gave that up, too, when her first baby was born.

I think she must have loved us most easily when we were fast asleep. I was reminded of this Friday night at the Life Oak Coffeehouse. Chip Dolan was one of the outstanding performers and his song “Carry Me Home” really touched my heart. He wrote the song for his mother, including these lines: “In the eyes of a lady there’s no finer sight / to see all her children home safe every night / while she waits in the kitchen, she leaves on the lights / prays that we all make it home.”

I wonder how many sleepless nights will mothers and fathers the world over experience before all the children are safely home?

Back into my own memory, the most consistent image I have of my mother is coming home from school and finding her at the sewing machine. She made all our clothes, and even miniature wardrobes for our dolls, including a variety of hats.

Cooking was not her specialty, but she prepared meals consistently, and she loved to bake cookies and other sweets. My favorite dessert was lemon ice box pie—one for my birthday and one for Father’s Day, near the same date. It was his favorite kind of pie, too. Mama and Daddy expected us to be seated at the dinner table by 6PM with clean hands and faces and to do the dishes afterward.

Teaching, carpooling, discipline, and minor emergency care made up my mother’s world as far as I knew. Her life also revolved around the church, with Circle meetings, the Altar Guild, and arranging flowers on a weekly basis. After we left home, she joined the church choir and never missed a rehearsal. She also became a sports fanatic, much to our surprise!

Though Mama disagreed with some of my life choices, she never gave up on me, even in middle age. I suppose she always hoped that I would amount to something. The writer Florida Scott-Maxwell puts it this way: “. . . No matter how old a mother is she watches her middle-aged children for signs of improvement. It could not be otherwise for she is impelled to know that the seeds of value sown in her have been winnowed. She never outgrows the burden of love, and to the end she carries the weight of hope for those she bore. Oddly, very oddly, she is forever surprised and even faintly wronged that her sons and daughters are just people, for many mothers hope and half expect that their new-born child will make the world better, will somehow be a redeemer. Perhaps they are right . . .”

It turns out that mothers are just people, too, who have indeed changed the world by giving birth—to us! In relationship to my own sons now, I understand a parent’s continual longing for their success and happiness. Often I roll my eyes, shake my head, or bite my tongue at the choices they make—just because they’re my kids and I thought I taught them better!

One of the more difficult things I had to do was to make decisions on behalf of my mother in her later years. All three daughters lived out of state, so we each planned quarterly trips to visit our parents, so that one of us would be there every month. This became even more important when Daddy broke his arm and was in a nursing home with dementia. My sister Madeleine had the brilliant idea to keep a binder under the guest room bed where we slept. We kept contact information for doctors, friends, plumbers, and bankers. We kept a running log about doctor visits and general observations about how things were going. Another section in the book was called Next Steps, in which we jotted notes about coming appointments or whatever needed attention soon.

My sister Jean had the brilliant idea to hide a bottle of brandy under the bed for unwinding late at night. She also supplied a giant coloring poster and crayons to keep us from going crazy. My brilliant contribution was to discover a phone jack behind the bed. We bought a cheap phone so we could call our spouses and each other late at night for moral support. Altogether we made a pretty good team. Madeleine’s future husband lived there for a year to prepare meals and transportation as well as companionship. He made it possible for Mama to live at home for a good bit longer. She was able to provide housing for him and he was able to attend to both her and Daddy.

At the end of the year, he married my sister and it was time for Mama to move into the nursing home. Though she could have moved in with one of us, she would have lost the support of an entire church community. Friendships were really more important than living with a daughter in her case. And so it was that our quarterly visits were to an empty house, with daily trips, while we were in town, to see our parents for the rest of their lives. It gave us a chance to sort through over 50 years’ worth of memories and messes.

Jan Montgomery my mother-in-law, was in a nursing home by the time I met her. She had been known for years as the Eldorado Tornado in the little town of Eldorado in downstate Illinois. She had been a big city girl from St. Louis who ended up in a rural community and was extremely restless and unhappy. She poured her energy into the church where she was choir director and insisted on helping all kinds of people whether they wanted her help or not.

But when I met her she had moved to Austin and had given up the three G’s: her husband Gill, God, and guilt. She still played the piano in the common room of the nursing home—usually popular sections of good Baptist hymns like “Precious Lord” or “Washed in the Blood of the Lamb.”

One of my favorite memories of her was at Jon’s and my engagement party in his sister’s backyard. Jan was wearing such a pretty dress that night. She enjoyed visiting with everyone and watching the children play and the trio known as the Studebakers sing romantic songs from the 30s and 40s. Jan beamed at her daughter Jill, who is one of the Studebakers, and Jon, her firstborn. Her children were safe and happy. The evening was delightful for all of us.

A friend of mine is caring for his mother who will be 98 in September. He moved himself and his office into her house full time, and has some assistance from Hospice. She uses a wheelchair and is unable to get into or out of it by herself, or bathe or dress. She is completely dependent on him for everything. At times she is quite lucid and articulate, and at times she can’t find the words to express her thoughts. A “whatchamallit” is the default noun in her vocabulary. It’s like she’s losing words as quickly as children learn them, growing up.

Often when he’s getting her dressed, she thinks they’re going on a trip and wants to know where. She has conversations with her own mother, then suddenly realizes her mother has been dead for years. Last week she asked him for her checkbook so she could pay to use the toilet. “Mom, it’s your toilet. You don’t have to pay to use it.” “I don’t mind paying,” she said. “It’s okay, Mom. I’ll take care of it.” “Okay then.”

My friend is learning new things about the value of family and what it means to love. She is teaching him how to be patient … and how to die. He’s learning how important it is to love the people he’s with, to love them even when he’s frustrated and angry. He understands more than ever what it means to die and what it means to live. “How long can this go on?” he sometimes wonders. Yet no matter how long it goes on, he won’t be ready to let her go. “Love and appreciate your parents,” he says. “What they give on the front end we give on the back end. Even then the scales won’t quite balance out.”

Mothers do many things, but above all they teach us how to love. Today’s parable, presented delightfully by Bobbie Hamilton and her daughters Jasmine and Alyssa, sums it up: “I will love you, forever and for always, because you are my Dear One.”

That’s the kind of mothering we all want … and need.

Amen and Blessed Be