Blessed Are the Women

My Mother's Day flowers

The Sermon I Wish I Could Give On Mother’s Day

Mother’s Day is not my favorite holiday. While I appreciate the intent behind establishing a day to honor the women who gave us life, for me, as a mother, daughter, sister, and friend, the day itself is an ambiguous one, fraught with empathy for women who want to be mothers but are not, women who have lost mothers, women who are mothers grieving lost children, or women who are raising children in less than ideal circumstances (pretty much every mother at some point in her life). 

On Mother’s Day this year, I went to church with my ten-year old daughter and listened to rambling “talks” from two teenage boys, followed by a returned missionary report and the obligatory gift of a small bag of chocolate-covered cherries. I enjoyed the cherries. But I left wanting a different kind of sermon, one more focused on the day itself. Frankly, in the context of current cultural anti-feminist attacks, Mother’s Day platitudes feel like mere lip service.

Here’s the sermon I, as a woman and a mother, would have given on Mother’s Day:

Mary, the mother of Jesus, gave birth to her firstborn son under less than ideal circumstances. She was an unwed pregnant teenager, but fortunately, her fiancé Joseph decided to marry her anyway, even though they both knew he was not her baby daddy. These days, you don’t find too many stand-up guys like Joseph, unfortunately, as far too many single mothers can tell you. Mary gave birth in a barn, because there was no national healthcare system in those days, Some things haven’t changed.

When Jesus was 12 years old, his parents lost him while they were on a family trip. This was before text messaging. They found him in a synagogue teaching his elders about the scriptures. When his mom scolded him, Jesus gave her the best tween excuse of all time: “Mom, I’m doing God’s work here. Chill out.” If my 12-year-old son tried something like this, I would probably ground him from his iPod for at least a day. Also, I would be secretly impressed.

In Jesus’s brief ministry, here are some things he did not talk about (but which certain Republican legislators are trying to abrogate under the false pretense of “Christian Values”):

• Gay marriage
• Reproductive rights
• Keeping people from using the bathroom they want to use.

And here are some things he did talk about (which seem largely absent from the vocabulary of many contemporary conservative Christians):

• Loving one another
• Embracing the stranger
• Forgiving people and not judging them.

One of the last things Jesus taught by example was how to respect and honor our mothers. While he was dying on the cross, Jesus made arrangements to ensure that his mother was cared for. 

What do we do to care for the women in our lives? This election season, I’ve become increasingly alarmed by the rhetoric of institutionalized sexism that has joined equally ugly racism and xenophobia in our national conversation. Policies that benefit women—maternity leave, childcare, healthcare, reproductive rights, equal pay for equal work, etc.—are under attack. 

This Mother’s Day, I’m thinking about all of the women who deserve so much more than we have right now. 

Blessed Are the Women

Blessed are the mothers, 
for they gave us life.

Blessed are the mothers who stayed at home during our childhood,
For they played pretend games and served us healthy snacks.
They showed us they cared by sacrificing themselves for us.

Blessed are the mothers who worked during our childhood,
For they attended our school conferences and helped us with late night homework.
They showed us they cared by sacrificing themselves for us.

Blessed are the mothers who are married,
And blessed are the mothers who are not married.
Both have their secret sorrows and joys.

Blessed are the mothers who abandoned us:
We cannot always know the price they paid for our life.
And blessed are the mothers who are estranged from us
As we pray for reconciliation.

Blessed are the mothers who hurt us.
We do not know the pain that they endured,
And we forgive them, to assuage our own grief.

Blessed are the mothers of children who are sick:
Theirs is a special calling, to care too dearly, 
to trade one future for another.

Blessed are the mothers who have lost children too young.
Any mother who outlives a child has lost her child too young.
May we pray for grace and peace for these sweet mothers.

Blessed are the mothers of furry or slimy or scaly creatures.
Their calling is to care for all life,
And they nurture living things as acolytes of Mother Earth.

Blessed are the women who choose not to be mothers.
There is nothing selfish in their right 
To self-determination.

Blessed are the women who are not mothers but want to be.
Theirs is an exquisite grief, a primal longing,
Let us assure them that they belong and matter in our world.

Blessed are the sisters, daughters, wives, girlfriends.
Blessed are all the women, for they shall care for the earth.

If Only Mother’s Day Were Every Day

Thoughts on why the day doesn’t mean that much to me

The Other Happiest Place on Earth

Every year on Mother's Day weekend for as long as I can remember, the kids and I have packed the Suzuki full of tents, sleeping bags, sleds, and s'mores fixings for our annual camping trip to Bruneau Sand Dunes State Park. The sand dunes are the largest freestanding dunes in North America, and they are one of my happy places, full of good memories. We hike on the sand, chasing (and sometimes catching) lizards and snakes. We cool off in the lake and try to avoid fire ants. We join other families in hiking up one of the smaller dunes and sledding down. At night, we wait our turn to look through the giant telescope at star clusters and galaxies hundreds of light years away.

Then there are the two largest dunes, the park’s main attraction. In the early evening when the air is cool but the sand is still warm, we hike the big dunes. It's not an easy hike, as anyone used to sand will know. You have to plant your feet, go slowly, and expect some sliding. But when you reach the ridge and can see miles of Idaho countryside greened by spring rains, the silver ribbon of the Snake River in the distance, and sweeping skies that feel like falling in love for the first time, it's all worth it. We pause for a moment to rest before the real fun begins. Once we have hiked the length of the ridge back to the trail head, we leap in giant strides, like moon walkers, then fall and roll, laughing and screaming with pure joy.

But back to the holiday at hand. Part of the reason I usually leave town is that I'm uncomfortable with Mother’s Day and always have been. When another friend expressed similar discomfort on her Facebook page this weekend, as everyone else was posting pictures of their wonderful mothers, I snarked, "Mother's Day. AKA Guilt Trip Day. AKA ‘Just pay me the same as a man and skip the flowers’ Day.”

We decided not to go this year. A forecast of rain, hail, and frost kept us Boise-bound, safe and warm, watching Minecraft videos on You Tube. Plus, physical ailments--hemorrhoids and that wonderful monthly bleeding, designed by their very nature to remind me of motherhood—made the trip seem less appealing for me; I was more inclined to enjoy “my” day with a glass of wine and a bottle of Vitamin I (ibuprofen) close at hand. 

I also used the weekend to re-establish control of the dire laundry situation, which had come to resemble that Star Trek episode where the cute little Tribbles start reproducing until there’s no room left on the Enterprise. After 13 loads washed, folded, and put away, I am proud to say I have everything under control except the socks—and that’s okay, because I raised my kids to think that mismatched socks were the epitome of coolness, a fashion statement rather than a faux pas.

The fact that I'm not fond of Mother's day does not mean I don’t love my mother. My Mom is one of those remarkable people who seem quiet enough when you first meet them, and then you learn that she raised six kids after her husband died of cancer, has two Masters degrees, loves to write and direct children's theater, can build a house from the ground up, and hiked to the top of Mt. Whitney at the age of 64, mainly (I think) because she wanted the summit photo as her Christmas card picture.

Maybe it’s my Mom who taught me not to be comfortable with Mother’s Day. From an early age, I was sensitive to the following groups of people who shared my gender:

1. Women who are not mothers, for whatever reason.
2. Women who are raising their children on their own, for whatever reason.
3. Women who have lost a child or children, for whatever reason.
4. Women who have lost their own mothers, for whatever reason.   

For all these women, Mother’s Day can bring more sorrow than it does joy. And instead of passing women-friendly legislation, or putting more women on corporate boards, or electing more women representatives, or fighting for women’s reproductive rights, or passing living wage laws that mostly help single moms, or helping mothers with families in mental health crisis, we relegate the whole “Mother” thing to a single day characterized by sappy cards and Champagne Brunch. (Not that I am complaining about the Champagne Brunch, mind you!).

We’re going to Bruneau next weekend. The forecast promises sunny skies and clear night for star gazing. As I look at those star clusters, millions of light years from earth, I’ll think about how far we still have to go to make every day a Mother’s Day. And how grateful I am to share my happy place with four children who gave me 13 loads of laundry, hemorrhoids…and so much more.