The Secret of Motherhood

“Three boys. How wonderful to be the mom of three boys,” I said to her.

“Four boys,” she replied. “I am the mom of four boys. The oldest would be five years old now.”

Would be five. 

I knew what that meant. He would be, but he isn’t––he is gone. 

“Oh, I am so sorry,” I said.  I looked into her eyes.  

I read somewhere long ago that becoming a mother is like being initiated into a sorority of women that has existed since time began.  Not all are blessed with membership and some choose not to join.  But for those who do, we know the rituals. 

So, I looked at this mom of four boys, because we both knew the secret: the joy and pain of motherhood. 

On Mother’s Day, I found myself amidst a blur of flowers and brunch, thinking of her and all the moms who perhaps were not celebrating. The ones who are always thinking of their children who would be rather than the ones who are.

The mother of four boys. 
The three friends from high school walking through the tragic loss of their adult children. 
The mother of my precious friend who recently lost her eldest son.
The friend who suddenly lost her adult daughter months ago. 

The unimaginable. 

And then there are the mothers silently battling a different type of loss–not physical, but emotional. Their children may be present, but choose not to be in their presence. 

Perhaps there really are no words. 

But, there is the secret–the joy and the pain. The holding on and the letting go. And, the love. 

As mothers, we make mistakes. So do our children, but the love for our children extends beyond comprehension. We love the ones we can hold, and we honor and love the ones who would be but are no more. 

I have learned so much about this secret of motherhood. From my own mother.  From the amazing mothers who surround me. We see it in each other’s eyes–the secret. And at times, we must carry each other.

But, that is what mothers do. We carry. 

We carried our children in our wombs. We carried them in our arms and on our hips. Even on our backs. We’ve carried them in ways they may never know.  

We celebrate. We mourn. We cherish. We grieve. We give thanks for motherhood. We hug the ones who are with us.  We pray for the ones who are not.

And we carry on.

That Place

Pictures.  I have always loved them.  Long before social media, I was a collector of photographs–moments of people I love captured forever.  

For years, back when we used to print pictures, I would organize them in photo albums.  Each album was numbered and each picture placed perfectly in chronological order. My albums go well into the double digits–I treasure them. 

I have found myself returning to these albums more and more as time passes.  

These albums, collectors of memories.  

Images of extraordinary moments like baby showers, births, first days of school and graduations.  

Images of ordinary moments like swinging in the backyard, Saturday morning cuddles, Halloween costumes and playdates with friends. 

The printed date in the corner tells me these were taken long ago, and yet, when I close my eyes, the moments just happened. 

I close my eyes, and I am in that place again.

In all of my picture-collecting and album-making, I always put the extra pictures in a cabinet, stuffed in there like the memory itself–put away for me to bring out when I needed.  

The pictures were in no particular order, unlike my albums.  Combing through them was like finding a gift you did not know you needed.  

“Oh, I remember that!”
“Look at this precious baby picture!”

I find myself wanting things in order, and with the extra time on my hands, I decided to organize my cabinet. 

And so I began.  Smiling as I went through each individual picture, and remembering.  And thinking how quickly it all went.

I came to the stacks of my children’s school pictures.  

And I thought about the frames–the ones with thirteen openings for pictures kindergarten through twelfth grade. 

This type of frame had not appealed to me before.  I had always thought it was trite, unsophisticated.  

But, I sat there with all of these school pictures and nothing to do with them, and I realized I wanted to see the little school pictures that had been stuffed in the cabinet. I felt the need to pull them out permanently– to honor moments, the memories, the places. 

After finding and ordering the perfect frames, I excitedly placed each picture in chronological order.  

And it took my breath away.

There they were–my children–their story in photographs.  

Each snapshot took me back to that year.  That moment. That place.  

Teachers.  Friends. Class Parties.  A few trips to the office.  Report Cards. Conferences.  
Field Trips.  Football games.  School Plays. Pep Rallies.  Basketball games. Awards Days. Homecoming Dates.  Disappointments. Celebrations. Sleepovers. Heartbreaks.  Ceremonies. 

And, the white spaces between each picture, the in-between.  The summers filled with cannonballs, vacations, friends, snow-cones, trips to camp, and time with family.

They were all there.  All the memories–in each school picture, in each white space.

I have stared at these frames over and over.  And, I see our lives.

The author Celeste Ng wrote in Little Fires Everywhere:

“To a parent, your child wasn’t just a person; your child was a place, a kind of Narnia, a vast eternal place where the present you were living and the past you remembered and the future you longed for existed at once.  You could see it every time you looked at her: layered in her face was the baby she’d been and the child she’d become and the adult she would grow up to be, and you saw them all simultaneously, like a 3-D image. It made your head spin.  It was a place you could take refuge, if you knew how to get in. And each time you left it, each time your child passed out of your sight, you feared you might never be able to return to that place again.”

Ah, yes that place. 

Motherhood–home. 

I am thankful for these little school pictures and how they give me my children’s lives all at once.

And how they allow me to return to That Place, that Narnia, that refuge, again and again.

I Am Still Here

I remember this December day in 2006.

We met the photographer at Arsenal Park near the State Capitol. She told me that we were going to just follow my children around...they will guide us, she said...we are not going to pose them, but capture them as they are. Free.

They stopped to smell flowers. Climbed on low branches. Played peek-a-boo in the palm leaves. They hugged. They kissed each other.

I can still remember the wind and London’s long, curly blonde hair. That wild, gorgeous hair.
I can still see Becket skipping, smiling, sticking out his tongue. That smile.

At the end, the photographer and I were walking behind them. They kept turning around to see if we were still there. When they would see us, they would turn around and walk on.

They would take a few steps, then turn around again—to see me.

Still there. Still behind them.

Even now, they walk their path—no longer young children, but young adults—I am still here.

The path has not always been easy nor have they always stayed on course.

But even in those moments, I can still see her blonde hair, see him skipping and hear them laughing.

Thank you Nicole Callac for capturing this memory.

I am still here. And they are still turning around.

What Would I Tell Her?

I love this picture.

I loved my life and my two precious babies. This was us—before school, friends, sports, cell phones, drivers license, social media—before the world really came into our lives. In this picture, we were our whole world; it was just us.

As I look at this picture now, what would I tell that Michelle? What would I want her to know?

I would tell her that these children do not belong to you. You can love, protect, pray, provide, invest, nurture, but they are not yours. They belong to the Lord.

I would tell her that because these children belong to the Lord, you will learn to rely on Him more and more.

I would tell her that their life journey is just that—their journey. Your role is to point them to the Lord and when they do not go that direction, to remember that it is their journey. And so, you pray.

I would tell her that these two incredible children will be the source of your greatest joy in life, and sadly, at times, the source of your greatest pain. Embrace both—the joy and the pain.

I would tell her that motherhood will ultimately make her a better wife, a better daughter, a better sister, a better friend, just better.

I would tell her that through your love for your children, you will come to understand love in a way you never have before—to love as Christ loves. To love with no expectation of anything in return. To love even when someone is unlovable. And through that love, you will also learn to forgive as Christ forgives.

Lastly, I would tell her that you will come to appreciate the man you married as a father. The qualities that attracted you to him will even become more valuable as the years pass—loyalty, compassion, kindness, and a desire to walk with the Lord.

So, I love this picture.

And every picture after this one.

Looking at this picture now, I would tell that Michelle that your journey will be good, and when it is not, that He will be with you. And, you will be thankful for the journey.