My mother and I had a complicated relationship. We differed in approach, opinion, faith, morality, politics…This is not very different from the relationship many young women have with their mothers. The difference is that my mother died before we ever had the chance to resolve the last vestiges of the conflicts born of stubborn adolescent rebellion. She died while I was still angry with her over so many things. This anger was somehow frozen in time. It was just easier to stay mad at her. Though the tragedy of her death broke my heart, the breaking was somehow less painful because of the anger.
Yesterday, I read aloud to a friend the original blog posted on this page. She cried. Through her sobs she noted that I could have let this tragedy (and so many of the other tragedies I have experienced) turn me into a vicious and horrible woman. She thought it was remarkable that I could pray for the person who killed my mother. She asked how I have kept my heart soft. “Grace” I said. Then it occurred to me that my mother was like that. She had a very inauspicious beginning in life. Bad things happened to her as a child. She didn’t always know how to be intimate with me because no one was intimate with her. This was one of the things I was angry about when she died (though I could not, at 24, have put it into words). As my friend sobbed, my anger turned to reverence. My mother could have hardened her heart. She could have been bitter. She could have given up. But she didn’t! She continued to extend herself the best way she knew how.
I haven’t looked at a picture of my mother in years. It was just too painful. I find I can’t take my eyes off of the silly picture the newspaper posted. I wasn’t there the day it was taken. I have heard that she was dressed for a play with her Sunday school class. I used to cringe every time the newspaper printed that picture. The shawl on her head just looked so strange. But today I am not looking at the shawl. Today I am reminded of her brilliant green eyes and they way they used to sparkle and dance with enthusiasm. I am struck by her uncommon beauty. Several of my friends have remarked that I look just like her. I keep thinking, “I should be so lucky.”
I called this blog, “Remembering Verna with Love.” But I have been so angry at and driven to speak out about the recent events that I simply forgot about the love part. It turns out the title of this blog was apropos nonetheless. For the first time since my mother died, I am at peace with her memory, and I love her more than words can express. Funny how we sometimes tell ourselves where we need to go long before we are ready to take the first step.
Yesterday, I read aloud to a friend the original blog posted on this page. She cried. Through her sobs she noted that I could have let this tragedy (and so many of the other tragedies I have experienced) turn me into a vicious and horrible woman. She thought it was remarkable that I could pray for the person who killed my mother. She asked how I have kept my heart soft. “Grace” I said. Then it occurred to me that my mother was like that. She had a very inauspicious beginning in life. Bad things happened to her as a child. She didn’t always know how to be intimate with me because no one was intimate with her. This was one of the things I was angry about when she died (though I could not, at 24, have put it into words). As my friend sobbed, my anger turned to reverence. My mother could have hardened her heart. She could have been bitter. She could have given up. But she didn’t! She continued to extend herself the best way she knew how.
I haven’t looked at a picture of my mother in years. It was just too painful. I find I can’t take my eyes off of the silly picture the newspaper posted. I wasn’t there the day it was taken. I have heard that she was dressed for a play with her Sunday school class. I used to cringe every time the newspaper printed that picture. The shawl on her head just looked so strange. But today I am not looking at the shawl. Today I am reminded of her brilliant green eyes and they way they used to sparkle and dance with enthusiasm. I am struck by her uncommon beauty. Several of my friends have remarked that I look just like her. I keep thinking, “I should be so lucky.”
I called this blog, “Remembering Verna with Love.” But I have been so angry at and driven to speak out about the recent events that I simply forgot about the love part. It turns out the title of this blog was apropos nonetheless. For the first time since my mother died, I am at peace with her memory, and I love her more than words can express. Funny how we sometimes tell ourselves where we need to go long before we are ready to take the first step.
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