Blessed

Among the four of us, ten sons raised to adulthood. By the soft, misty light on what had been a rainy spring South Carolina day, we sit catching up on time passed since we last saw each other, reflecting on memories of our friendships, and complimenting each other on our glasses, relatively new accessories for us fifty-somethings. As the conversation meanders, I find myself vividly seeing the years passed, almost like an out of body experience. I see us here, now, at this lovely restaurant set among the hundreds of years old, Spanish moss-draped oak trees, ordering from a sophisticated foodie-focused menu. All this in juxtaposition to the days when our paths first crossed, babes in arms. I think of the very moment I met each of these women. The conversations we had over hot coffee turned cold while we stood watch over our boys playing outside on a winter day. Tears shared when we felt our mothering wasn’t enough to protect or guide them. Stolen moments away for a spring tea or garden show.

It seems like just yesterday we were carpooling, arranging playdates, attending sporting events and awards programs. And, just like that, collectively we have almost all these young men out of college. Two of us are grandparents, three of us have added daughters-in law to the family. In some ways, their paths were predictable, yet each one has surprised us, in good ways and, at times, stressful ways.

We encouraged them to do their best, to be kind, and to be themselves. And yet, I am sure none of us when holding these babes, envisioned the adults they would become. We had hopes and dreams, framed by a combination of our fond childhood experiences and new or different experiences we desired for them. We learned over time to hold these things loosely because if these children really were to be themselves, they would pursue their hopes and dreams, not ours. They would come to form their own opinions and beliefs. And as we watch them do just that, we still worry about them, pray for them, and stand by watching their lives unfold, a little anxious, but confident knowing that we gave them a strong foundation.

I wonder how Mary felt as she watched her son become the man she raised from a child. She must have been so proud of Him, his character. He was kind. He was compassionate. So very smart, none could stump Him in debate or trap Him with cunning questions. Mary was probably his biggest fan (among humans, that is). She encouraged Him when ministry was difficult. When he was hurt by those who were friends and even family, she likely held Him tight and reaffirmed Him.

Did Mary dream of the king he would be? The splendor and honor of a royal? Did she picture his influence and the way he would shape culture? Did she fantasize about grand dwellings and lavish banquets? As she watched his ministry unfold, did her heart hurt as it became apparent that he would not be an earthly king? Or, maybe, as her precious son confided in her, did she understand all that was to come, even as Jesus’ disciples did not? I am sure of one thing. When he suffered, she did not hide. She took every step with Him. And then, she had to let Him go, too soon. And who showed up to the tomb first? Women. And among them, Mary. His mother, who years ago upon learning of her path and pregnancy proclaimed, “Surely from now on all generations will call me blessed.” Blessed to be the mother of our Savior, blessed to have held Him as a baby, to have watched Him grow up, blessed to have remained with Him during His suffering.

On this Mother’s Day, whether you are a mother, or mother others (thinking of some special Aunties, teachers, and caregivers out there), I honor you. The ones who show up. Who listen. Who pray. Who stay. Be blessed.

Until next time, I am living Between the Scans.