Magnificent Visible Wings

When I was a little girl, I thought my mother was a mysterious, magical creature.

I was fascinated by her.

I was in absolute awe and wonderment of her. She was so beautiful.

She wore very little make-up and wore very simple clothing, yet people could not help but linger on her loveliness. She had this ethereal look to her. Large round eyes and a delicate, well-shaped nose mingled serenely among high, softly rounded cheekbones. She had flawless, porcelain skin that glowed from within and a soft, plush mouth that could heal all wounds mortal and mental. Her delicate frame seemed to float wherever she went.  And her voice…it was an amazing, soaring soprano that rang clear above all the other voices in song. She sang like an angel – an angel with magnificent invisible wings.

I was fiercely proud of her and wanted to be just like her. I would study her as she applied her make-up and try to learn her craft. I would consider her as she prepared meals and memorize her methods. I would examine her in a crowd and practice her mannerisms. She was everything womanly and wonderful to me.

As I grew older, I realized there was a lot more to her than meets the eyes. I realized that what made her so beautiful was more about who she was than what she looked like.  She was a quiet beacon radiating warmth, gentleness and compassion.  She was an unimposing vista, demanding nothing but inspiring and rejuvenating weary souls by just being there.  And, she was everything soft and peaceful that I wanted to be.  Even her voice was soft. In fact, I don’t ever remember her yelling. Her voice was a comforting, magical elixir for whatever ailed me. Sure, she would get upset with me. But she would never yell. Her voice simply didn’t make that sound. Her voice would take on this aggravated melody and I would feel disappointed with myself for having displeased her.  After all, she was the person who kept me safe. She was the person who healed my wounds. She was the person who loved me no matter what…and I was a naughty little girl. Even still, she always had a warm hug and a soft, plush kiss for me.

As I grew older still, I stopped admiring her.  I became self-absorbed. It was all about me. I needed to take lessons. I needed a ride someplace. I needed to have designer jeans.  My mother exhausted herself quietly to cater to my needs. She worked hard  for little money and slept little for a larger purpose.

Eventually I realized the magnitude and direction of her sacrifices.  They were all for me.  This made me feel guilty. I didn’t want to feel guilty. I just wanted to get what I “needed”. I was angry with her for making me feel guilty.  I accused her of being a masochistic martyr. I looked at her with contempt and treated her like a cockroach. Yet she still gave me warm hugs and soft, plush kisses.

When I entered womanhood, I stopped resenting her. I stopped thinking about her altogether. Life was still all about me…and I was free to pursue the business of me without her hanging over me. Smart and talented, I was arrogant in my self-confidence. In my eyes, she had grown quite small – she seemed so simple and meek. I would visit her from time to time…but mostly because I needed a place to crash…I needed to get my laundry done…I needed gas money. I shamelessly used her. But she was always glad to see me and always eager to feed me and she always had a warm hug and a soft, plush kiss for me.

The day I became a mother, my mother re-entered the godly realm. I was inexperienced and terrified by my new responsibilities. She was so wise and strong…she seemed omniscient and omnipotent. She showed me how to care for my newborn boy. She cradled him casually and lovingly in her arms, unfazed by his endless crying…and with some mysterious maternal power she was always able to stop his crying. She was somehow magically able to juggle all the demands of this tiny boy and never miss a beat…and never cave in. I felt like I was going to crumble.

Once my confidence and experience in motherhood grew, my mother’s heavenly status returned to earth and frustration settled in.  I was so exhausted and overwhelmed.  I was physically undernourished and spiritually depleted.  She came to me as much as she could and helped me in many ways but the mostly she resuscitated me with warm hugs and soft, plush kisses.

So, Mother’s Day is upon us and I find myself thinking - What is motherhood really? Cleaning up after the children?...keeping them clothed and clean, fed and healthy?…helping them when they need it?  Anyone can do that. You can pay someone to do that.

What I know of motherhood I learned from my mother. She showed me that Motherhood is the art of generosity – unconditional and without expectation. Motherhood is a life of acceptance without resentment. Motherhood is a way of loving without conditions. Motherhood is humanity at its purest. Motherhood is patiently waiting…and always being available…always available with a warm hug and a soft, plush kiss.

On this Mother’s Day I am a responsible, loving mother. But I am also a little girl…I have, all this time, always been a little girl…the little girl of a beautiful mother with magnificent visible wings.