December 16, 2022
Psalm 133 1“How good and pleasant it is when brothers live together in unity! It is like precious oil poured on the head, running down on the beard, running down on Aaron’s beard, down upon the collar of his robes. It is as if the dew of Hermon were falling on Mount Zion.”
Ugh! I suspect I have Covid again though I didn’t test. We’ve had one sickness after another since the end of October. The fever and headache ended earlier this week, but the utter fatigue is hard to recover from. I’m sitting in my bedroom where I’ve been quarantined watching Liam Nissan movies one after another and feeling the Christmas blues. I used to dread Christmas. Now I love Christmas cards and church services, making peanut brittle, and sending out presents. Still, I find that it’s a season of reflection and no matter how wonderful my life looks on the outside, it never measures up to all my hopes and dreams.
This was the first morning the kids were home for their first day of Christmas break. I was feeling better and sat on the floor to wrap some presents with I heard Jonah and Xenia yelling. Then I heard Mike’s voice as he intervened. It sounded like both kids were trying to shout their sides of the confrontation through tears. I hated Mike having to leave his home office to deal with them but was too tired to get up off the ground. Mike did a good job of sorting it out, better than I would have. Sometimes I send them to opposite sides of the house to cool down and never get around to figuring out what their issues with each other were.
I finished wrapping a few things needing to be mailed as soon as possible and crawled back into bed. Before turning on yet another mindless action movie, I thought about how fleeting the time with my children is and how hard it is to make their lives the way I wanted things to go. Do all siblings fight? Some people say so, but I wonder if I gave them more attention or security or understanding or whatever it is they seem to be lacking would they have more compassion on each other?
I’ve always imagined that my goal for motherhood was that my children might know that I love them. That is indeed a lofty goal. Despite having grown up in a very broken home, I knew Mom loved me which helped me to overcome everything else. That’s still my goal, but I want so much more. My sisters and I are all spread out around the country and though we love each other, we sometimes don’t have a lot in common. I wanted my kids to not only love each other but go to church together and want to live close to each other. I am doing my best to be the mother my children need and to raise them in the ways to bring love and peace into their lives, but I see so many ways that I have failed and continue to fail.
I am haunted by the objections the kids throw at me.
“If you loved me, you’d make my brother be nice to me.”
“If you loved me, you’d make my sister be kind.”
“If you loved me, you would have seen the pain I was in, and you would have helped me.”
These accusations have echoes from the far reaches of my parents’ families and my grandparents’ childhoods. There’s an abundance of abuse in the generations before mine. My home of origin was better than my parents’, and my kids have it much better than mine. My parents are dead. Only my mother’s mother is alive, but she isn’t talking anymore. There is no one to explain why. Why was childhood so painful? Why didn’t the adults do more?
When my children ask me why I don’t do more, I have no words to explain to them how hard I worked to come to the place I am, how much there was to overcome. How ashamed I am that my best hasn’t been good enough. Part of me wants to say, “Kid, if you think you have it bad, let me tell you.” Part of me wants to tell them how much their cries resonate with me, and so many who have come before us. I can only pray that my children will overcome the burdens that they bear, and that they will give the next generation an even better childhood than they had. We live in such a sinful messed up world, and we long for a life with justice, kindness, health, and love. We long for the kingdom of heaven.
I want my children to know that I love them, but sometimes I wonder what that even looks like. The memories I cherish most of Mom are her dragging me on random errands of fun. We went to find waterfalls. We took drives in the country to look at cows. We went to arboretums to look at trees. I miss her hugs. I miss her calling me sweetie. I miss her telling me I was wonderful. I miss her pretending to spray me with an invisible aerosol spray. She’d make the spraying sound effects and say, “I’m spraying you with ‘guilt begone’.” Perhaps I need a dose of that right now.
Not since my early twenties have I blamed her for the years I had to mother her instead of being mothered. I remember praying about it and having an adult in my church at college tell me that they were sure that my parents loved me as best they could, and that meant a lot to me. Every year since I had my first baby at twenty-six, I’ve been filled with wonder at how well Mom lived her life with all that she had to live through. When it really mattered, she fought for her children with all she was worth. I had many years of knowing how much she loved me. Surely my children will someday give the grace I eventually extended to her.
The dark of the year lends itself to grief and acknowledging the discrepancy between the perfect that I long for and the reality of what is. I fell asleep praying for healing for my family and longing for the days in the past when Mom was alive, and all my children were home gathered around me. There has always been some sibling strife, but it feels like the children were closer when they were all very little and that their arguments passed like clouds across the sky.
Jonah and Xenia woke me up half an hour later coming into my room to tell me about all the stuff they found in the spare room they had cleaned out. They suspect Justin of hiding old yogurt cups in the extra dresser. It took teamwork to tackle the room to get it ready for Xenia who will move out of Mom’s room to make space for Esther. The bed is made. The floor is vacuumed. The dresser is cleaned out. Best of all they did it together.
It was a short nap but enough to refresh me and give me hope that good things are coming. Tomorrow is the baptism of sixteen souls into our church. God willing I’ll be able to sing in the choir. I need that light in the darkness. The reminder of new birth and new life. The story of forgiveness and second chances. Tomorrow Esther will come home, and we’ll have one more Christmas vacation with our girl. We are in the midst of the Advent fast, but so very soon the fast will end and our wait for the birth of our Savior will be celebrated with a feast.
I feel better for my nap and better for writing this all out. Often when I feel terribly guilty it’s my way of grasping for control over things I have no control over. I need to work on gratitude and letting go. For now, I’m off to watch a Hallmark movie, where like in heaven everything in life works out and everyone is happy in the end. Action movies might not be the best choice for today.
Please pray that I get my energy back soon. This has been a rough year for me. Thank you for reading my stories and being with me on this journey. Tonight I pray for peace on earth and in my family and goodwill among men and siblings.
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