Not So Bad Mom (and Dad)
A service for Mother’s Day Weekend
Rev. Mark Stringer

First Unitarian Church of Des Moines
May 13 & 14, 2006

 

“Blaming mother is just a negative way of clinging to her still.”--Nancy Friday

 

“Having children makes you no more a parent than having a piano makes you a pianist.”—Michael Levine

Call to Gather (Mark)

We’ve left behind the light of our singular rooms

To be together again.

Together on this day set aside to honor our mothers…and therefore a day to honor our very lives.

We are a diverse community

bringing to this space different stories and different circumstances,
but similar needs.

Needs for love, for forgiveness,
for the means to live our days
with as much hope and joy as we can muster.

So let’s pull off our packs,

Those bundles of burdens we’ve been carrying

And be together for a while.

We have words to share, songs to sing

And so much to see…so much to see.

 

Meditation

 

I invite you to a time of meditation, reflection or prayer.  We will begin today/this morning by sharing a time of silence…a time to center ourselves in this good company…to let the noises that will fall around us to be what they are.  Cars outside, wind rustling the trees, shuffling feet, the voices of children drifting into and out of the room.  This is a time set aside from the rest of this hour…from the rest of this day…from the rest of this week, to merely sit and be as present as possible to the fact that we are alive and here in this room…at this time.   This is a time to quiet the chatter of your mind the best you can, feel your feet on the floor, your back against the chair, and the rise and fall of your chest as your lungs fill with our common breath…the breath of life. 

 

(Silence.)

 

Our meditative time continues with a poem by Robert Herson, a poem that serves as a good starting point for the remainder of today’s service.  It is a poem written by a man about his son, but it is really about the strong attachment mothers and fathers often have for their children…an attachment that transcends reason…an attachment that is a part of the complicated experience it is to be human, whether the children can understand it or not.

 

“Sentimental Moment or Why Did the Baguette Cross the Road?”

 

Don’t fill up on bread
I say absent-mindedly
The servings here are huge

My son, whose hair may be

Receding a bit, says
Did you really just say that to me?

What he doesn’t know

Is that when we’re walking

Together, when we get to the curb

I sometimes start to reach for his hand.

 

Reading

 

“For a Five-Year-Old” by Fleur Adcock

 

A snail is climbing up the window-sill
into your room, after a night of rain.
You call me in to see, and I explain
that it would be unkind to leave it there:
it might crawl to the floor; we must take care
that no one squashes it.  You understand,
and carry it outside, with careful hand,
to eat a daffodil.

 

I see, then, that a kind of faith prevails:
your gentleness is moulded still by words
from me, who have trapped mice and shot wild birds,
from me, who drowned your kittens, who betrayed
your closest relatives, and who purveyed
the harshest kind of truth to many another.
But that is how things are: I am your mother,
and we are kind to snails.

Sermon

 

One of my colleagues, the Rev. Judy Welles, leads the congregation she serves in an annual ritual on Mother’s Day.  She asks everyone to bring a flower to the service…a flower to represent one’s mother…colored if the person’s mother is still living, white if she has died.  The flowers are arranged in a bouquet and taken down front for everyone to see.  As the service begins, Judy then calls attention to the great diversity of flowers represented…the great diversity of mothers represented.  If I had asked you to do this…to bring a flower yourself today to represent your mother, what flower would you have brought?  Here now are some of the words Judy shares once the flowers are brought forward:

 

Some mothers are like forsythia spilling over the neighbor's fence—almost unbearably cheerful, energetic and determinedly curious, 
insinuating themselves into our lives.

Some mothers are like daisies by the side of the road—humble, 
perhaps a little frayed around the edges, fretting as they pick at 
their clothing "Does he love me? Does he love me not?"

Some mothers are like irises in formal gardens—austere and 
complicated, holding themselves back as we try in vain to discover what's really inside.

Some mothers are like roses displayed on a trellis—lovely, 
sweet-smelling, sure of their favored place in our hearts.

Some mothers are like thistles in a field—their sharpness wounding 
us as we try to get close.

Some mothers are like violets coming up in the lawn—unassuming but 
tenderly loyal, always there regardless of how we take them for 
granted.

Some mothers are like ivy on a brick wall—holding us too tightly, 
unwilling or unable to let go.

Some mothers are like beds of peonies—bosomy, overdressed, 
embarrassing us with their lavishness and the lipstick marks they 
leave on our cheeks.

Some mothers are like lilac bushes beside the kitchen door— 
welcoming, familiar, reminding us that we can always come home again.[1]

This symbolism of this flower ritual really works for me…because I know how differently each of us may view our mother’s and this day to celebrate them.  Still, I figure that some of you would not want to bring a flower at all.  Maybe your mother would be best represented by creeping charlie, or poison ivy…or some indistinguishable and/or noxious weed.

 

It’s odd isn’t it?  This day set aside to honor mothers…the women with whom many of us have our closest bonds…bonds that can lift us up when we most need lifting…bonds that can anchor us when we feel most adrift.  But for some of us, the bonds we have with our mothers can be more pain-filled than pleasant…more complicated than comforting…and eventually no longer there at all…at least in a physical sense.

 

I know the strangest Mother’s Day I experienced was back in 1988, just a few weeks after my mother died. Even though my mother was no longer here to honor, the stores still had their cheery displays reminding me not to forget Mother’s Day…as if I could.  It seemed cruel that year, how life just went on with no acknowledgement of what I had lost. 

 

And you know, Mother’s Day is difficult every year…at least for some of us.  It can be tough for those who cannot have children of their own, or for those who never knew their birth mother, or who can’t enjoy the difficult relationship they had (and maybe still have) with their mother.   For some of us Mother’s Day is easy…buy a card, maybe some flowers...share a pleasant phone call or dinner.  For others, Mother’s Day is a painful reminder of all that one didn’t or couldn’t receive…or of love that was taken from us too soon.

 

I took some time last week to glance at the variety of cards that fit the different relationships that could need Mother’s Day acknowledgement.  Looking over the hundreds of selections, it was easy to see that the card stores do not give those of us with more difficult relationships much from which to choose. The same goes for Father’s Day, too, you know.  If your father doesn’t play golf, sail, or enjoy loafing in front of the television, there really aren’t many options.

 

What would it be like to have cards for these Hallmark holidays that adequately represent how we truly feel about our relationships with our parents?  Cards that say things like “Mom, thank you for giving me life…now would you please stay out of it?”

 

Or “Dearest Father, I love you and all you are…I just wish I knew that you loved me the same way.”

 

Or how about, “Mom, I can’t believe how hard it is for me to forgive you for __________________ (insert transgression here).  I want to forgive you, I really do, but for some reason I can’t.”

 

Or maybe “Dad, I don’t know why I am still angry.  But I hope I can get over it before you are no longer here to love.”

 

If we have entered into the challenge of raising children ourselves, it is possible that some of the judgments of our parents we once clung to so easily may begin to fall away.  An older friend of mine referred to this as softening.  She told me that her adult son began to “soften” once he became a father.   He treated her more kindly, took more of an interest in their relationship, started to give her a break. She called it softening, but maybe it’s more like tenderizing…being pounded by the challenges of dealing with our own children’s needs and expectations may help us see how the expectations we had of our parents were not so helpful (or fair).  After all, parenting is one complicated enterprise.  There is no sure way to do it, but hundreds of ways we are led to believe we must.   Parents are expected to be super-human…even when we simply cannot be…and perhaps nothing can bring one’s own fallibility to the surface more than raising children and making some of one’s own mistakes…mistakes parents have always made. 

 

Maybe the most appropriate Mother’s or Father’s Day cards, then, the ones that could be the most significant…the most useful for our relationships with our parents …would be messages of forgiveness:

 

The deck was stacked against us Mom.  You did the best you could.  Thank you for trying in your way.  I love you.

 

Dad, you didn’t know how much you hurt me.  How could you know exactly how I felt?  I forgive you.

 

Mom or Dad, you really screwed up when you raised me.  I’m still paying the price.  But I know you must have felt your screw up, too.  Let’s move on and love each other the best we can.

 

Most of us wouldn’t dare send such messages to our parents…and we are probably better off not doing so.  After all, enumerating all the ways our parents screwed up right before we tell them that they are forgiven will probably not result in the kind of love fest we might envision.  Rather than hear the forgiveness part, our parents will be more likely to defend themselves against the accusations of wrongdoing. 

 

Can we, then, forgive our parents without dragging them through the dirt of our detailed disappointment and unmet expectations?

 

I recently learned about a meditation suggested by the Zen Buddhist Monk Thich Nhat Hanh that might give us a good place to start.  In this meditation, which we will share in a few moments, he invites us to visualize ourselves as five-year old children.  He suggests that when we view ourselves as five-year olds, we can more easily access compassion for our suffering…for the harsh words and wounds and encounters that we have endured.  He then encourages us to visualize our parents as five-year-olds, as the children they once were…children who were also vulnerable and fragile, just as we were, and to meditate on that visualization, with the intent of growing in ourselves a sense of compassion that can help us tap into the truth that our parents have had their own struggles and needs.

 

I invite you, then, in the context of this sermon, to return to a time of meditation…this time a shared visualization, as a means to open up your own heart of forgiveness.

Sitting where you are, take some time to get comfortable.  Shift your weight. . .  Stretch and relax your shoulders . . . and settle into a comfortable position . . . Close your eyes and allow your body to relax . . . Feel the weight of your feet on the floor.  Feel the heaviness of the weight of your body . . . Allow yourself to feel completely supported and relaxed . . . Feel your feet.   Feel your feet connected to the earth . . . Your body is supported by everything around you . . . You are completely safe and supported here    . . .

Now turn your attention to your breath.   Take a deep breath in and exhale completely . . .

Breathing in.. .  Breathing out . . . receiving . . . giving . . . breathing in . . . breathing out . . . Allow the rhythm of your breath to support you . . . Breathing in slowly . . . Breathing out completely . . . You are comfortable, relaxed.  Focus on the steadiness of your breath . . . As your mind drifts, bring your attention back to your breath . . .Breathing in, you feel peace . . . Breathing out, you feel at home in your body . . .  . . .

Breathing in you feel calm and breathing out you relax . . .

1.Breathing in… I invite you to see yourself as a five-year-old child.

Breathing out…you smile to the five-year-old-child.

2. Breathing in… you see the five-year old as fragile and vulnerable.

Breathing out…you smile with love to the five-year-old within you.

 

3. Breathing in… you see your father as a five-year-old boy

Breathing out… you smile to your father as a five-year-old boy.

 

4. Breathing in… you see your father as fragile and vulnerable

Breathing out… you smile with love and understanding to your father as a five-year-old boy.

 

5. Breathing in… you see your mother as a five-year-old girl.

Breathing out… you smile to your mother as a five-year-old girl.

 

6. Breathing in… you see your mother as fragile and vulnerable

Breathing out… you smile with love and understanding to your mother as a five-year-old girl.

 

7. Breathing in…you see your father suffering as a child.

Breathing out…you see your mother suffering as a child.

 

8. Breathing in… you see your father in you.

Breathing out… you smile to your father in love.

 

9. Breathing in… you see your mother in you.

Breathing out… you smile to your mother in love.

 

10.  Breathing in… you understand the difficulties that your father in you has.

Breathing out you are determined to work for the release of both your father and you.

 

11.  Breathing in … you understand the difficulties that your mother in you has.

Breathing out you are determined to work for the release of both your mother and you.

Breathing in, feel compassion . . . Breathing out, you smile inside . . . Breathing in you feel the heaviness of your body supported all around you and your feet touching the floor . . . breathing out you Slowly come out of your silence to become aware of your presence in the room . . . When you are ready, open your eyes.  Become aware of others in the room around you.

 

Thich Nhat Hanh suggests that in this meditation, we can welcome the children who were our mothers and fathers and smile to them.  We can see their fragility and vulnerability and feel compassion for them.  He invites us to consider that when we can see and understand someone else’s suffering, we will find it impossible not to accept and love them and this will allow us to release the resentment we may have accumulated toward our parents. 

 

It is the letting go of this accumulated resentment that frees us to understand our feelings and to prepare ourselves to become more calm and tolerant— the means by which we will love (and forgive) more easily.[2]

 

In one of our small group ministry sessions, we use a poem by Jan Heller Levi that echoes this wisdom, by suggesting that another way to find forgiveness for our parents is to pay attention to their humanity…in this case, a father swimming.  She writes:

 

I think you are most yourself when you’re swimming;

slicing the water with each stroke,

the funny way you breathe, your mouth cocked

as though you’re yawning.

You’re neither fantastic nor miserable

at getting from here to there.

You wouldn’t win any medals, Dad,

but you wouldn’t drown.

I think how different everything might have been

had I judged your loving

like I judge your sidestroke, your butterfly,

your Australian crawl.

But I always thought I was drowning

in that icy ocean between us,

I always thought you were moving too slowly to save me,

when you were moving as fast as you can.[3]

This Mother’s Day, then, and Father’s Day, too, may we find the courage and the peace of mind to see that our parents did the best they could with what they had.  And may we love them for what we can love in them, and honor them the best we can, flawed as we are, too.  From them, we were given the gift of life.  Let us say thank you, each in our own way.[4]

 

 

Closing Words (Robert Mabry Doss)

When giving thanks comes hard for you,

And things are grim,

         And hope runs thin,

                  Recall:

Despair’s a door to pass on through,

         And not a home for living in.

When thanksgiving fills your cup,

And those you love are all about,

Look at your blessings, count them up,

And give back something to the world

Without.