Happy 24th Birthday, Abby!

Happy Birthday, sweet girl. Every year I wonder how it is possible that twelve months / fifty two weeks / three hundred and sixty five days have caused me to love you even more.  And yet, without fail, I do.

And these twelve months?

I have watched you embrace and embody courage, conviction, tenderness, vulnerability, strength, perseverence, grief, possibility, and promise.

I have watched you reach deep within to summon all these and then some as you have made hard decisions—choosing to consistently and bravely honor yourself.

I have watched you move across the country, establish a new home, and start a new job—demonstrating grace and hope in the midst of the inevitable struggles and stresses that can’t help but accompany these huge transitions.

I have watched you love and laugh, agonize and cry, question and doubt, pick and choose, fall down and rise up—over and over again.

Over and over again I have been amazed by you, humbled by you, grateful for you beyond what words can possibly express. And still I try . . .

I marvel at who you are and who you continue to become. I marvel at the fact that somehow, in the grand-and-miraculous scheme of things, I have the privilege of being your mom. And I marvel at the certainty that when another twelve months / fifty two weeks / three hundred and sixty five days have passed, I will love you more still.

Happy 24th Birthday, Abby. I love you.

Happy 22nd Birthday, Abby!

For many years I have written you a blog post on this day – commemorating the year that has passed and all I have witnessed and marveling at in you, your life, and who you are ever becoming. I’m not writing that post today – at least not as I have before.

Instead, I want to say “thank you.”

I know – being born wasn’t up to you; nor were so many of the memories you have created for me during these two-plus decades. Still, it’s the best way for me to capture what I feel when I look back, when I look ahead, when I look within, when I look at you.

Thank you.

Thank you for trusting me. Thank you for pushing me. Thank you for arguing with me. Thank you for laughing with me. Thank you for crying with me. And thank you for letting me do all of this with you. Thank you for being who you are: compassionate, intuitive, empathic, sensitive, beautiful, brave, brilliant, full of longing, driven, committed, passionate, funny, quirky, heart-centered, and so much more. Thank you for all that makes you you: your love for the Enneagram, great music, your amazing puppy, Jasper, sinfully delicious confections, hot Cheetos with queso, and the same kind of sushi as me. (Admittedly, I’ve left a few things out, but these come to mind as more recent iterations.) Thank you for modeling love: for your friends, your family, your amazing puppy, Jasper, your new home in Montana, and so much more. Thank you for being willing and able to name what you want, what you hope for, what disappoints you, what causes you pain, when you hurt, when you’re sad, what matters, what you can let go of and what you cling to with ferocious tenacity. Thank you for being honest and straightforward and endlessly committed to growing, developing, being the best you can be for yourself and others – even when it’s hard, especially when it’s hard. Thank you for modeling for me what 22 can look like – grounded, clear, wise, boundaried, and strong (all of which evaded me far beyond my 22nd birthday). Thank you for extending me the grace to change and transform and fail and fall and hope and hurt as a mom, a sister, a daughter, a friend, a leader, a woman. Thank you for loving me. And thank you for the gift, the miracle, really, of being privileged to love you.

Those who are yet to love you have no idea what they’re in for, all that they are yet to receive, all the change they will undergo, all the memories and experiences they will cherish – all because of you. 22 years ago I couldn’t possibly have had any idea what I was in for either. That’s probably just as well. My heart would not have been able to hold it all at once: holding you was almost more than it could take, more than I could believe or imagine. And that sensation, that experience, that gift is just as true today as it was on October 7, 1998.

Thank you, sweet girl, for showing up on the planet, in my world, and ever in my heart.

I love you.

Happy Birthday.

The Scaffolding Around My Heart

Today is Abby’s last day of high school.

I just finished packing her last school lunch – ever; my last school lunch – ever. So many mornings over so many years now complete. it’s a big deal. She was always the hard one to pack for, only liking certain things. Were the truth told, she’s probably
thrown more lunches away than eaten them. So much energy expended and angst expressed. Now done. Now over. Now finished.

I remember her labor and delivery. I consciously thought, “This will be the last time I ever do this.” As I nursed her I realized the same. Last Saturday’s prom, today’s school lunch, this Friday’s upcoming graduation: all markers of more ‘lasts’, of endings, of completion.

Yes, a summer awaits before college begins. Yes, more meals to prepare and cleaning to do and cash to hand over and crises to solve. But very little of all this remains when juxtaposed to the years of such. Now nearly over. Just…like…that.

As much as I have complained about all of this (the meals and cleaning and cash and crises), these very tasks, responsibilities, even struggles have created the scaffolding around my days, my life, my heart. And now, like any long-term construction project, I watch the last supports fall away and witness the finished product standing tall, intact, and completely separate from me.

And so, I stand back and take it all in, take all of her in, as she turns and walks away.

In just moments she will get in her car and drive to school. She will park one last time in her reserved slot. She will sit in class and move locations with each bell and wave to her friends in the hall – realizing (and not) that this is it. She will turn in one last paper, sign forms, and say goodbye. And it’s definitely time for all of this. She’s ready. So am I.

Still, I feel undone – this scaffolding now gone. Not unravelling. Not unstable. Not upset. Just aware that the rigor of a world ruled by school lunches and after school agendas and a 9-month calendar and back-to-school shopping and homework and field trip permission slips and immunization records and yearbook photos and choir concerts and sleepovers and late nights and early alarms all falls away, fades away. Just…like…that.

I am still here. In the same chair with the same pen and the same ritual of coffee and writing and the dog on my lap. And she is leaving. Yes, just for this last day of school, but for so much more.

I get up from this page to hug her goodbye, to tell her I love her. She shrugs and looks at me, wondering why I’m making a big deal about any of it.

Because that’s what I do as a mother: hold the awareness of all that is happening to and for you, all that you are – until you can and will and do. I build the scaffolding and then dissemble it, piece-by-piece, year-by-year, lunch-by-lunch, until you no longer need any of it. Because you don’t.

I’m guessing there will be days, months, and years ahead when I will gather that scaffolding around me, in my mind’s eye and deepest heart, that I will recount how every bit of it was privilege and precious gift, that I will realize I now stand intact because you always were – my beautiful and amazing girl. As it should be. As it will be. And so it is. Just…like…that.

You are NOT the Invisible Woman!

Do you ever feel as though you are unseen, unheard, invisible? As though your story doesn’t have all that much significance in the larger scheme of things?

Don’t believe it! Nothing could be further from the truth!

Your story is more than significant, more than profound, and more than critical to the larger, gorgeous, amazing drama that’s being woven and written around you. And your place, your voice, your role, your heart is right in the middle of it! I promise!

Want an example?

Not surprisingly, I’ve got one.

There is an ancient, sacred story told of a nameless woman. We know nothing about her other than what we can deduce: she was a daughter, a wife, and a mother. These alone, in my opinion, are more than enough to give her stature, merit, and value. Sparse details hardly limit the depth or scope of her significance. She lived a story that couldn’t help but change the world. Just like yours.

After Adam and Eve left the Garden they had two sons – Cain and Abel; later, a third. One day, in a fit of jealous rage, Cain killed his younger brother. (Makes eating that fruit seem relatively mild, doesn’t it?) His punishment was to wander the earth – a nomad, no home, no family. In fear for his ability to survive, he pleaded with the Divine to protect him; to somehow keep him from being killed by those who would seek his death. And so he was given a distinguishing mark that would forever protect him. And of course, this is where we get the phrase, “the mark of Cain.”

Later in the text we read that Cain settled in the land of Nod, east of Eden. Then this, Cain made love to his wife, and she became pregnant and gave birth to Enoch. (Genesis 4:17)

That’s it. Her only mention.

Now some would say such is not even worth the bother – for a blog post or a book chapter, let alone an attempt to offer some level of significance to those who feel their stories are small, inconsequential, almost nonexistent.

Don’t believe it! Nothing could be further from the truth!

“…there are stories we will never find, no matter how many times we search the sacred texts. I think it was Marcia Falk who wrote, ‘What we cannot remember, we must imagine.’ And so we read between the lines, listening beneath the layers of suppression and neglect to hear the chorus of voices where we were told there was only silence.” ~ Jan Richardson, In Wisdom’s Path

In between the lines and listening between the layers. Expecting to hear a heartbeat of significance, meaning, and worth. Imagining what we deeply, intuitively, and already/always know to be true: women’s stories matter. Just like yours.

Whether myth or historical fact matters not. Her story is true. Cain’s wife sings out the continuation of countless generations: hundreds of thousands of women who are unnamed but no less real; without position, but no less powerful; barely spoken of, but hardly silent. Cain’s wife symbolizes every single page of life and death, hope and despair, triumph and tragedy that is being written, even if seemingly unseen and unheard. Cain’s wife signifies that women endure, period. Just like you.

And if this weren’t enough (though I believe it is), Cain’s wife is the first woman mentioned outside the Garden. Eve’s daughter-in-law. The wife of a marked-man. The bearer of Adam and Eve’s grandson. A mother who heard her husband’s stories and told them to her son. One who enabled generations to follow. She lived a significant story. She is a significant woman. Just like you.

So if there are days or even seasons in which you feel as though your story is not worth mentioning, barely seen, a whisper that’s hardly heard in a noisy world, take heart! Cain’s wife stands alongside you in solidarity and strength. She reminds you that every story matters and that every woman’s ability to nurture, labor, grieve, laugh, cry, persevere, live, love, and bring forth life in any and every form is what enables the far larger story to even exist, let alone be told, endure, and thrive.

You are part of a legacy of a women who endure, who make a difference, who matter. To ever think, let alone believe anything less is a lie.

Cain’s wife calls you, me, all of us back to the truth. Hear her voice:

I see you. I hear you. I know your name. I love your story. You matter. You endure. You live. This alone is more than enough. You are more than enough. Take heart: you are my daughter, my lineage, my kin.

“The greatest day ever!!!”

I went to the grocery store a few days back, irritated that I had to make the trip in the first place. Stepping out of my car and dashing between drops of threatening rain, I heard a boy – probably about six years old – yelling at the top of his lungs:

“This is my greatest day, ever!!! Isn’t this my greatest day ever?!?!”

His mom said, “Yes, sweetie, it’s pretty great.”

I smiled and moved through the parking lot toward the front doors. Just a few steps before entering, I spotted a dad and his young daughter who had obviously witnessed the same. She said “Is this my greatest day ever, Dad?” He smiled and said, “It sure could be.”

I laughed out loud. And my less-than-stellar attitude changed dramatically.

This is the nature of enthusiasm, of glee, of happiness, of praise. It’s contagious. It’s viral. It will not, cannot be slowed, contained, or stopped.

Can you, will you imagine that the Divine expresses such unbridled enthusiasm, glee, happiness, and praise over you?

Go ahead. Imagine it. I’ll wait for you . . .

What might change? How might you act, respond, feel, speak, be? What if, even for a moment, you could allow this to be true?

Psssst: it is true!

The Divine sees and shouts, sings, whispers – endlessly and infinitely: “This is my greatest creation, ever!!! Isn’t this my greatest creation, ever?!?”

When you believe and live like it’s true, others can’t help but say the same: “Could I be the Divine’s greatest creation ever?!? Could I?!?”

And like a flash-mob, more and more people will see, hear, wonder, ask, act, and dance. Everything will change.

*****

As I look around at the world: Sandy Hook Elementary School, the NRAs response,
bi-partisan politics, the painful and recently-personal effects of patriarchy, the ongoing reality of sexual trafficking, and so much more, I long for something, anything to change.

We need a viral, contagious belief in my own goodness and that of others. We need a viral, contagious belief in the Divine’s determined and passionate heart our my behalf. We need to be able to stand in the middle of a parking lot and yell, “This is the greatest day ever!”

May it be so.