Summertime Spirit: Asher is Seven

Asher James, it's hard to believe that seven years have passed since you entered the world. I still remember the longing I felt to hold you, how deeply we ached to add to our family, how much more difficult it was than we expected. We walked through years that were empty and we navigated floods of grief we didn't know we would face. And then you came along.

It still surprises me, how easily you entered into the world. Pregnancy was pregnancy, often uncomfortable, sometimes joyful, fraught with worry and waiting. My back ached as I carried your nine pound form in breech position until you finally flipped at the last possible second. Our arms ached to hold a little one after years of disappointment and loss. Your big brother couldn't wait for his baby to arrive. He knew of the babies we lost before. Everyone was already anticipating you eagerly, and yet you made us wait a few days longer for your arrival, passing your due date and making the summer heat feel more unbearable. And then without complication, as textbook as any labor and childbirth could be, you arrived promptly just in time for church on a Sunday morning.

That's still your way. Often, I find myself waiting for you as you take your time with daily tasks. Generally, I am more impatient than I should be. If I would give you your own time, I am sure it would be perfect. You were the baby who came when we thought we might stop trying. You flipped into the head down position just in time to be born without surgical intervention. You did whatever babies do to make themselves appear just before we decided we might have to coax you out with medical assistance. All in your own time. Just at the right time. You never have wanted to be rushed.

So much about you is exactly what we needed, exactly when we needed it. You were born in the summertime, and summer is your season. You bring the spirit of leisurely summer days to our world, with your unhurried approach to life. You embody the times everyone is anxiously waiting for in spring, the anticipation of long days days full of sunshine spent by the pool, and longer evenings spent sharing backyard barbecues with friends. You are fearless, fun-seeking, social. To you, every day is vacation, with a world around you to explore and people you enjoy by your side.

You were born in the middle of our three children, and your laid-back, independent spirit fits so perfectly in that space of our family. You love to do things on your own, and you enjoy helping others when they need it as well. You adore and will follow your older brother anywhere, yet you delight in having the role of protector and leader and boss when it comes to your baby sister as well. Being both little brother and big is a special job that you seem well-suited to. You are independent as the leader, content to be in the crowd, and also willing to follow those ahead of you. Like the filling in a cookie or the good stuff in a sandwich, we're not complete unless we have both the outsides and the center. We need you in the middle. 

You were born in a season of grief, and you replaced that shadow with joy in a way I never would have believed was possible. You embody your name in ways we couldn't imagine. We named you Asher, which means happiness, because you were our happy blessing after lost babies. Your middle name is James for your great-grandpa you couldn't know, but we didn't think much about how it meant "to supplant." But supplant you did, casting away our grief for what was lost and filling our lives with gladness. You were the most happy, smiling, contented baby I had ever seen. You were a baby who slept--something we didn't know was possible. And you are still bringing joy and gladness to everyone around you, always ready with a smile and a story and your boundless enthusiasm.

This year you are swimming like a fish, jumping off the diving board over and over again, your grin at the surface just as big every single time. You were tall enough for big roller coasters this summer, and while they didn't all meet your expectations, you found the parts you liked about them and chose to focus on the good. You are excited to be able to read real stories now, chapter books, and you tackle them with determination, working out the big words for yourself whenever you can. You're riding a big-kid bike, stretching your abilities and independence.

My prayer for you as you turn another year older, and for every year to come, is that you always keep these qualities about you. I pray you can find yourself in the right place at the right time, just by following your own clock. I hope you keep your summertime spirit, ready to take things slow and soak up the sun or find the next adventure with a smile on your face. I pray you always feel right at home where you are. Whether you lead, or are in the middle, or when you follow, may you always know yourself and keep your independence. I hope you can always find joy, focusing on the positive, and delighting in the simple things. Your spirit is contagious. You are just what our family always needed. The world is better because you are in it. I hope you feel that way today, at seven, and I pray you will always know it to be true.

To My Other Dad on Father's Day

In this post last week, I shared about my dad. The words were difficult to write, and some have shared that they were difficult to read as well. This week, I want to share words that come more easily, words of gratitude to the man who stepped in when my own father fell short. I never felt as though I was a burden to him. He seemed to act on instinct, doing the next right thing, taking the necessary actions as they came to him. I cannot imagine the weight that he carried, but I never even thought of it at the time. He didn’t let anyone see the heaviness that must have been upon him when he decided to take on two more children, not his own, not even related to him by blood. 

When my uncle allowed us to move into his home, he gave me so much more than a place to stay. He gave me a dad during years when that role was immensely important.

My uncle taught me many valuable lessons by his presence and his patience through my high school years. Some of the lessons were concrete, intentional teachings. Some were lessons absorbed by being around him, learning from his presence and his life. He was patient and calm and reassuring. He corrected my mistakes and gave me the tools I needed to travel out into the world. 

This Father's Day, I want to say thank you to the man who was a dad to me when he didn't have to be, my Uncle Bob.

Thank you for teaching me how to drive. I always recognize a stale green light, know that once I hesitate I have made my decision about what to do next, and especially remember not to slam on my brakes without a signal in the middle of the road if I am planning to make a left turn (you know, in case I don’t want to get rear-ended by a car behind me).

Thank you for teaching me that having a good day is a matter of choice, and always better than the alternative.

Thank you for making me exercise budgeting skills by using a small allowance to pay for all the extras in life, and to value the fact that they really are extra--bonuses, luxuries.

Thank you for showing me that whistling while you work really does change the way you feel about the job at hand, especially if you choose to whistle Christmas carols in July.

Thank you for teaching me that I was acceptable, by being willing to acknowledge and embrace me in the high school hallway, and calling me your kid.

Thank you for being an example of faith by how you live. You serve the least of these faithfully, and you held on tightly to the promises you knew even in the midst of extreme trial. You weren’t afraid to use your gifts to help others, from building projects to eye contact, a good squeeze and a reassuring hand pat for a lonely soul.

Thank you for helping me to realize my own coping mechanisms, by noticing that the bigger the bowl of ice cream, the tougher the day must have been.

Thank you for teaching me that procrastination on my part does not result in an emergency on your part.

Thank you for showing me the value of presence, by coming to support me at countless swim meets and cross country events, no matter how hot, humid or long the day would be.

Thank you for teaching me how to mow a lawn without chopping off my toes.

Thank you for patiently quizzing me on the names and locations of NFL football teams, the various ways to score and penalties, because I wanted to learn.

Thank you for showing me that it is always worth it to get off the couch to help someone else, even on the days when you really needed to rest.

Thank you for introducing me to the happiness that is a perfectly grilled, slightly charred, heavily barbecue sauced pork steak. And for knowing that it is best shared with the people you love.

Thank you for teaching me how to play Hearts, and to always duck unless you are absolutely sure you can shoot the moon.

Thank you for helping me to value others and be considerate, even if that lesson meant I was grounded for my scheduled first date.

Thank you for making me understand that a gentleman always comes to the door and you don’t leave the house for a honk or come back to the porch by yourself. Thank you for teaching me that all boys are bad, but some really are better than others.

Thank you for teaching me compassion for others, and a willingness to expect people to sometimes make mistakes, and to be able to forgive them for their humanity as they found their way.

Thank you for teaching me to keep offering yourself, keep reminding others that you are available, in the way that you consistently told me you would be there when I was ready. You gave me reassurance that your offer wouldn’t expire when I needed more time to get out of my abusive situation. You gave me the courage to leave when I needed to. 

Thank you for always helping me to consider the other person’s perspective, even when it was hard and I really didn’t want to.

Thank you for trying to teach me the importance of being on time, even if I never quite managed to get the hang of that one.

Thank you for helping me believe I was capable of more than I thought, encouraging me that I could walk to find a job at college and that I really could get by without a car.

Thank you for showing me integrity and helping me to find it within myself, learning that it was essential to always be where I said I would be and do what I promised I would do.

Thank you for walking me down the aisle and into the arms of a man who would love and protect me the same way you did.

Thank you for teaching me that family always shows up when needed, driving me all night so that I could see my brother, and standing beside me in the hardest days I ever faced. You taught me that strength is about how we hold each other up even when we all feel like falling apart. 

For taking me in and calling me your own, thank you. I would not be who I am today without your willingness to fight for me. Thank you for never giving up on me, for continuing to be there for me, for walking the happy and the hard places of life with me. 

The words don't seem enough to convey how grateful I am for the all the ways you have been a dad to me. They are not enough, but they are all I have. Thank you.

In Memoriam

I have struggled immensely to find the words to describe the strange and twisted grief I felt when my dad died last November. I have attempted many times to put my thoughts about my father into words. Unraveling my memories of him—the person he was, the man he pretended to be, the dad I knew—is like trying to navigate some kind of ancient Celtic knot. This weekend, my family will have a memorial service to commemorate his life and to remember their loss. It is months later, and I am still wandering through the tangled knot of feelings I have about my father’s passing, observing my grief, considering what I can possibly say to honor this man.

On Saturday I will attend a service for my dad, among family members who will undoubtedly remember him differently than I. I didn't know the little boy who worried about his mom's feelings, afraid to leave her alone all day when he went to Kindergarten.  I don't have memories of the thoughtful young man who asked the nurse to cover his broken arm so his family wouldn't worry. I don't remember the little brother who kept his older siblings busy with his antics, although I occasionally saw him at his most vibrant, being the life of the party at family gatherings. On Saturday, I will go to a memorial to support my family as they commemorate their pleasant memories of a boy, a teenager, a young man I didn't know. I will also go to put to rest my memories of the man who was my father. I will mark the ache I have felt in my father’s absence; I will continue wading through oceans of grief. 

In describing those left behind when a loved one passes, obituaries often use the words “is survived by” to describe living relatives of the deceased. When it comes to reflecting on the man who was my father, what I will choose to memorialize is that I survived.

I survived the lies that led so many in, lies told so convincingly you simply had to believe they were true.  I think he was certain in his mind that the wild and crazy stories he told really happened. When I was a child, I believed that we were descendants of royalty, that my dad had once been a professional racecar driver and that he saved an entire ship from blowing up by stopping a nuclear missile with his bare hands. I can picture him sitting there, long legs in worn denim stretched out in front of him, head back and laughing as he recounted past glory days. It is easy to see why there was always someone over at our house, laughing and smoking and hearing him talk. Unfortunately, his lies weren’t always so harmless. He could be venomous, telling me my faults and hateful untruths about my existence. He could be manipulative, constructing a story that led to you doing what he wanted, even when you knew that he was wrong.

The storyteller has been laid to rest, and he is survived by a daughter who seeks to tell the truth.

I survived the neglect of a man who didn’t seem to know how to put his children’s needs before his own. My dad was inattentive, unaware of how to meet his own needs, let alone those of anyone else. When it suited him, he paid attention to others. As a four year old, I peeled the cellophane wrapper from a couple of slices of processed cheese, dug a few cocoa puffs from the bottom of a cereal box, and placed all of them on my brother’s high chair tray to feed him. My dad was home, but asleep, while my younger brother fussed and fretted in his high chair. During seasons when my father was unmarried and living alone, my brother and I were frequently responsible to meet our own physical needs. We learned to take care of ourselves and each other, finding food to eat, washing our own clothes or wearing what seemed reasonably clean. Beyond physical neglect, my father was also emotionally unavailable. He demanded perfection, but his requirements were capricious, and he rarely offered any kind of affirmation or praise.

The absent father has departed from this life, and he is survived by a daughter who believes her worth.

I survived the cycle of violence that my father perpetuated against the women in my family. The first time I remember seeing my dad’s cruelty I was very young. My mother had recently said she was leaving him, and grasping to regain his manipulative control, he tied a rope around her neck. I opened the door to their room and saw that horrific brutality. I can still recall the way my mother’s face looked up at me, tears streaming down her cheeks, her face red and swollen. She looked down at the square of light on the carpet, I closed the door, and we never spoke of it again. His violent behavior returned one night years later at a friend’s house. I watched my dad wildly swinging a hammer in his right hand, waving it at his best friend, threatening to hit him, maybe to kill him.  To make this even more frightening, he was holding my baby sister in his left arm.  Soon after that, he threatened to kill our entire family and himself with a shotgun, standing and blocking the front door of our house when my stepmom decided she was through. It shouldn’t have been a surprise when his violence turned toward me. I was fourteen, and beginning to question his iron control, on the night when he bound my hands behind my back, pinned me to the floor, and struck me in the face.

The fighter has breathed his last, and is survived by a daughter who found safety and peace.

I survived, and I recognize that I suffered the loss of my dad a little at a time through the years. All these memories are but a glimpse into the reality that I never had a loving relationship with my dad. Where there should have been love, there was instead fear. For all of my childhood, I feared my dad.  As a teenager and young adult, I abhorred him.  Toward the end of his life, I pitied him.  And still, in all those seasons, I longed for him.  I longed for a father. I longed for a true and genuine apology that said I deserved more; I deserved better. There is a part of me that always hoped for a different resolution to our story. The lack of resolution caused me grief, brought me sorrow, and was my loss.

As I unravel this complex knot of emotions and memories, I see that the grief I now face is that my father is dead, and he never acknowledged the tremendous pain he caused. The ache in my chest and the lump in my throat are because now that he is really and truly gone, I have to be the one to tell the little girl that the apology she longs for isn’t coming.

I see you, little one.  You are strong.  You are brave.  You survived.

Somewhere inside me is the little girl who survived the lies, the berating and the demeaning. I carry within myself the child who endured being neglected and feeling unloved. I am the young woman who escaped being accused and bound and hit. I am still the little girl that wishes her daddy would stop yelling.  She wishes that he would lay down his gun, his hammer, his screaming and come into her room.  Hold her and tell her it’s going to be ok.  Say that he’s sorry, that he loves her and her brother and sister and they are all safe.

My father died, and he is survived by a daughter who has hope that the story isn’t truly over yet. I believe that his death is not the end. Now that my dad has been released from the bonds of this life, I hope that he has been freed from mental illness, from the disease that affected his mind and body and heart. I have hope that one day in eternity I will see my dad in his glorified body and his wholly right mind. I may recognize the thoughtful spirit of the boy who loved his mother, the brother who entertained his siblings, the man who cared for others. I will not be afraid, because we will be in the presence of Love, and perfect love casts out all fear. On that day, my dad will say that he is sorry.  And somehow, because of the great mystery of life and death and sacrifice and forgiveness and Love, I will believe his apology.  I will know with a deep understanding I cannot fathom that his apology is the truth, my forgiveness is the truth and our Love is the truth.

Kenneth Wayne Moore—my father the storyteller, the unfettered, the fighter—has passed from this life into eternity. He is survived by me—his daughter the truth-teller, the refuge seeker, the hopeful.

Yearbook Signing

The school year is wrapping up, and my kids are bringing home stashes of artwork and used-up pencils, celebrating their accomplishments, and preparing to spend a few days having fun with friends before school’s out for the summer. One annual task that is right around the corner is yearbook signing. My kids are young, so yearbooks seem a little extraneous, but I have to admit it’s pretty sweet to watch this tradition evolve. In Kindergarten, kids are just able to sign their names and by fifth grade, they are adding fun embellishments like hearts and stars to their signatures. Next up, middle school, where everyone writes, “Have a great summer!” and “Stay cool! C-ya next year!”

This got me thinking about my own yearbooks, and my high school self. I pulled my yearbooks out today because I remember the comments often surprising me. Of course most people say nice things, like “You’re a good friend,” and “It was fun having chemistry with you,” and always, “Have a great summer!” But when they became more specific, the personal comments in my high school yearbooks tend to have a similar theme, mostly about my perpetual optimism and joy.

“You are always smiling!”

“Thanks for being so happy and cheerful all the time.”

“I will miss seeing your smile and positive personality!”

In middle and high school, I was something of an incurable optimist. Search for the silver lining, point out the bright spot, think happy thoughts—these were my specialties. People who know me in my day-to-day life now would find this to be laughable. A bit of a skeptic, tired and complaining, and usually obviously stressed to the max as I run from kids to work to other obligations—this is the land I now reside in. Frankly, I miss the optimist within myself, and I’ve been wondering where she’s been.

It’s not as though the circumstances of my high school years were ideal, and I was simply enjoying the blissful ignorance of youth. You could argue that adult life is harder, and has more responsibilities and worries. But the truth is that when I was younger, not only was my home life much more difficult than my daily life now, the circumstances of my personal and family existence were pretty much public knowledge.

I remember the night my dad came charging into the high school auditorium. I was standing behind a giant wood and canvas construction made to look like a house that had been the backdrop for a play ending that night. I had called my dad to tell him that I would be home late, because we needed to strike the set that evening. I had asked for permission to attend the cast party afterward, and he had said no. I hung up the phone, telling him I would get a ride home after I finished helping to tear down and clean up. It would be late, but getting a ride home was normal for me. It was no surprise that my dad hadn’t attended a single showing of my first ever performance.

So there I was, standing on the stage of my high school production, holding onto a heavy backdrop while another person was breaking it down. I began to hear whispers from the other cast members. I heard yelling and a scuffle in the room just off the stage, and someone saying, “I think it’s her dad.” I looked up to see a friend standing at the end of the backdrop, and the look on his face was one of compassion.

“What is going on?” I asked.

“Your dad is here,” he answered simply, and held out his arms to me.

I felt a wave of red-hot shame and embarrassment wash over my body. I ran into that hug, my head hanging down in disbelief, my ears ringing, and tears welling in my eyes. I could hear the drama teacher shouting, telling my dad he needed to leave.

“I think he punched Mr. B.” my friend whispered into the top of my head. “You’d better go,” he said.

I left quickly and quietly with my dad that night, without saying a word to anyone, and then had to return to that same school the following Monday. I was only a freshman. I remember the continued embarrassment of hearing the drama teacher retell the story in the hallway several times over the next few weeks. Visiting alumni, other teachers, administration, all got to hear about how Mr. B. feared for his safety when a student’s dad came charging in following an exhausting run of performances. When your dad storms into the high school in your freshman year and punches the drama teacher in the face, it’s pretty obvious to everyone you know that you’re not living with the most stand-up guy.

No one mentioned that incident in my yearbook. No one talked about how I was shy, or quiet, or closed off. Instead, friends mentioned specifically that they appreciated that I continued to smile even though it seemed like my life was hard. I know that I am blessed to have had many reasons for joy during that season. I always felt loved and supported by extended family, friends and teachers throughout that very confusing and abusive time. I participated in a variety of activities, because being at school was certainly better than being at home. My faith grew during that season, and I found strength in believing in a God who loved me.

When I consider it now, I also believe the fact that others were completely aware of my reality influenced my optimistic perspective. My friends knew the facts of my upbringing and home life, yet they were still my friends. Having support in the face of such tremendous difficulty gave me the space and freedom to be myself without fear of rejection. My friends understood that circumstances were hard, but they didn’t judge me based on those circumstances. They regarded me separately from my dad’s actions, and they gave me tremendous grace. I can’t even explain to you the incredibly positive influence that my peers had in that short season of my life. When things were difficult, they sent letters and cards and notes of encouragement. When things went well, they had barbecues in my honor. They were high schoolers. Just kids themselves, really. But they supported me in ways that have anchored me ever since.

Maybe it was because I was surrounded by so many caring people that I found the strength and determination to regard myself as separate from my circumstances. I became defiantly opposed to being like my dad; I wholeheartedly refused to believe that I was as bad and shameful as he often labeled me. I made it my mission to become the opposite of what my life appeared to be. Daily life was hard, but I was hopeful. Shame abounded, but I found strength. The story did not look like it was going to end well, but I became the surest optimist.

In more recent years, I lost that sense that things would turn out well. I started to think in terms of my failures, rather than my successes. Maybe it was becoming a mom, and feeling terrified that I was doing it all wrong. Perhaps it was seeing others around me fall into old patterns and cycles repeating themselves, as they often do. The messages in my head told me that I couldn’t be better than where I came from, that I was incurably messed up, and that no matter how hard I tried, things would not end the way I wanted them to. I felt as though I no longer had control over the person others would see in me and that I couldn’t influence or change the inevitably negative comments they would leave about me in my yearbook.

Since I have been openly sharing personal stories of my past and experiences on my blog, I have felt a lightening taking place in my life. Learning to walk without shame over my past, or even my present and the ways my past has influenced me, is unbelievably freeing. Deciding that I am unwilling to hide what I am dealing with, or make excuses, forces me to address the real roots of my exasperation, my stress, my cynical heart. It is only by facing those issues head on that I can break free from them. Acknowledging the truth, being unable to hide, is terrifying for sure. But for the most part, if I am being honest, finding tremendous support from so many who either identify with or find new ways to empathize through my stories has been an incredibly uplifting experience for me personally. It is helping me find my way back to that high school student who was known, and not ashamed. I am once again feeling pretty optimistic these days about how my story ends. After all, I play a major role in determining that outcome.

I was thinking that it might be nice to do some yearbook signing again. Consider this a note from me to you, telling you to stay cool. Thanks for reading my story. You matter to me, and you have helped me feel known and unashamed, and are aiding me in shifting my view back toward optimism. I really do hope you have an amazing summer and you keep in touch. But I want to take it even further. I want to be the supportive friend who isn't hiding her truth, and makes room for others to share honestly when they are struggling. I want to acknowledge your struggles, and be able to point out that you are not your circumstances.  I want to write for you a note telling you all the good I see in you that you might not see in yourself. I want you to believe that you can change your future, today, and be the kind of person that you want to be, no matter what you're battling or where you come from. That's what I'm writing in your yearbook today, friend. LYLAS.

The Thief Will Not Win

After posting so many difficult stories recently, I find myself asking why on earth I am doing this. I don’t really think people want to spend their precious time reading about trauma, and I would guess that those who know me might feel a little bit uncomfortable with the amount of personal information I am disclosing. I know that I am on a journey, and getting part of my story out there in this way is one small part of my process. So much of what I have shared so far has been facts, information about the realities of my own past and history. But sharing the facts is not the whole of the story I am trying to tell.

What I really want to share is that while there is a level of brokenness that impacts my life continually, there is a tremendous level of grace that impacts it more completely. In the book of John, Jesus tells a story. It is a beautiful parable about how a shepherd cares for his sheep. The shepherd is portrayed as kind and gracious, looking after his sheep tenderly and calling them to himself.  The sheep know their shepherd, and follow the sound of his voice. The shepherd is calling his sheep away from those that would harm them. John 10:10 says “The thief’s purpose is to steal and kill and destroy. My purpose is to give them a rich and satisfying life.”

Here is what I know to be true. I know that there is a thief at work in this world.  I can see the work of the thief stealing, killing and destroying in my life, and in the lives of those I love. So much has been stolen—my innocence, my trust in those who should have cared for me, my childhood. So much has died—my relationships with my biological parents and extended family members, my children’s relationships with grandparents. So much has been destroyed—the life of my abuser, my brother’s life, the lives of other victims.

This week I was overwhelmed with the feeling that this is not how it is supposed to be. This feeling produces tremendous grief. I want things to be different; I long for it. At times, the realization of the present level of destruction threatens to crush me. I cannot explain all that I feel other than to say that it is incredibly painful.

Yet in the midst of all this destruction, this intense pain, I can hear a shepherd calling as well. I can see his work all around me. While he did not prevent the thief from coming in, he was there with me and he called me away from that place of darkness. By some miracle, I heard the voice of a shepherd who loves and cares for me, and I can honestly say that I believe he was calling me all throughout those challenging days. By believing in that truth and following his voice, I have found myself led into a completely different life than the one I knew when I was a child.

I cannot explain why I have been given the opportunities I have throughout my life, when I see others whose suffering is greater than my own. I can only keep listening for the voice that guided me away from destruction. That voice continually encourages me to stop allowing my own bitterness to steal my joy, my lack of forgiveness to kill my future, and my hatred to destroy my chance to feel and express love. When I listen to that message, I find peace.

So I return to the original question: Why am I sharing these difficult stories? Why not leave the past in the past, and enjoy peace in all that I have today? I am telling these stories because it is evident the thief came with a purpose in my life, and he made it his mission to steal my future from me, to kill my faith, and to destroy my hope of something greater. I am telling these stories so that the thief will not win. For me, that means that the story of my past will become a story of redemption. It means that what the enemy meant to use to harm me, God will be able to use for good. It means that I cling to the belief that I have been brought through much so that another sheep might hear the echo of a Good Shepherd calling them away from destruction, into a rich and satisfying life of their own.

This blog is only one part of the work that God is doing in me, but it is something that I feel strongly that I have to do. I know that in this process I will make mistakes. Sometimes, perhaps I will share too much. Other times, it’s possible I will disclose too little. For all of those mistakes I will make, I ask forgiveness from those who read. Truthfully, I am doing all of this as an act of obedience to my shepherd, and that is reason enough.

I believe God has a purpose and a plan for these events, these stories, these heartaches I have experienced. The opportunity to speak up and use my voice to reflect back on my story reminds me of his grace covering me, his light shining through the darkness, his love bringing forgiveness and healing to the broken places. In order to find that place of healing and peace, both the darkness and the light need to be shared openly.

The Good Shepherd promises me that the thief will not win. That promise is enough for me.

You Are My Sunshine: A Lullaby for Mothers

It is almost Mother’s Day. This year, I will celebrate that I have been a mom for over a decade. I will honor the various women in my life who have supported and helped me along the way to becoming a mother. I am fortunate to have my amazing grandmother in my life, as well as aunts who supported me throughout my childhood in place of a mom, a wealth of friends who have cared for me and shown me the art of mothering through the years, a stepmom who was on the scene at just the right time, and an incredible mother-in-love who raised one helluva man that I am blessed to call my husband. I recognize that it is an abundant blessing to have so many women in my life that care for me, yet I still feel an absence in that area of my life. I do not have much of a relationship with my own biological mother. Although I rarely speak to her, I think about my mother often.

I have complicated memories of my mother. Many of my memories are confusing, and I have far more questions than answers about her choices throughout my childhood. Many of the memories are painful, frightening or sad. Some of them still cause me to feel angry, or hurt, or disappointed. The memory that causes me the greatest ache, however, is that of my mother singing to me a lullaby. It comes to me in flashes. I can picture myself as a toddler, standing on the side of the crib calling out, and then see her enter the room, lay me down, and bend over the rails while she sings. I can feel myself cradled on her lap, slowly rocking back and forth while she is smoothing my hair to calm me. I think of her sitting on the side of my bed when I had the flu, and the words flood my mind again.

“You are my sunshine,” she sang, “my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. You’ll never know dear, how much I love you, please don’t take my sunshine away.”

It is a song that many mothers sing to their children. I have sung it often to my own. And yet every time I utter the words I hesitate.  My eyes grow wet with unshed tears and my chest aches with pressure as I softly make my way through the chorus, thinking of my mother, thinking of my children.

 I think about my mother rocking me to sleep, looking in on me as her baby at night.  I think how the lyrics to that song were an echo of the life in front of us.  "Please don't take my sunshine away," my mother begged over my sleepy head.  It is the cry of so many of us as mothers when we rock our little ones.  "Don't grow up too fast," we plead.  "Don't leave me too soon," we cry out, when we look up and realize that they have grown inches taller and years wiser.  "Please be mine always," we ask, hoping that even when they do grow up and go away, they will still be our babies.

The chorus of You Are My Sunshine feels like it is part proclamation of love, part codependent threat.  You are my sunshine, so please don't ever leave me, because if you go I will have nothing.   And yet that chorus seems to reflect one aspect of a mother’s love and heartache pretty well. You are my everything, little one. Watching you grow makes the bleakest day seem lovely. You light up my life. I don’t think you can ever really know how much I love you with this powerful love, the love of a mother for her child. And yet, my heart breaks because I know that my greatest responsibility in life is to raise you so that you can go out on your own one day. But not yet, please. Please don’t take my sunshine away just yet.

Perhaps I feel this pull more acutely than some, because I do not have an adult relationship with my mom. I cannot ask her if she felt the same intensity I did on the day we brought our oldest home from the hospital. I was sitting on the side of the bed in our apartment, sunlight streaming through the window, my beaming husband standing over us, proud as could be. I looked up at him with tears pouring down my face. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Are you in pain?”

Holding my sweet, chubby bundle in my arms, through gasping sobs, I told him what was bothering me. “He’s just going to grow up (sniffle, sob) and meet some girl (gasp), and leave me (boo-hoo-hoo)!” With the patience of a saint, my husband kissed my forehead. “Honey,” he said calmly, “let’s just figure out how to feed this little guy and get through the night. Maybe let’s not worry about the next 18 years just yet.”

But as the years fly by, I feel this tension of motherhood deepen. This love that is so overwhelming is accompanied by a heartache that knows that it cannot hold on to a ray of sunshine forever. That little bundle has places to go, people to meet, and a life of his own to live. And I constantly fear that if I mess this up, my little man may not come back to me after he is grown. Embedded in this ache that accompanies watching my children grow is the deeper ache over my own mother who missed so much of my childhood. Most people never sing the verses of You Are My Sunshine, perhaps because they are heavily coated with sorrow.  My mother always sang the first verse to me.

“The other night dear, as I lay sleeping, I dreamed I held you in my arms. When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken, and so I hung my head and I cried.”

I don’t think my mother could have possibly known how this verse would soon echo in her own life. I can only imagine that those words did become truth when her children were taken from her.  The gray skies of navigating abuse and poverty and brokenness managed to blot out any ray of light for years. I don't believe my mother wanted me to be hurt, but I don't believe that her desire for things to be better acquits her of responsibility.  How do I balance her possible love for me, her daughter, with the terrible and traumatic events that transpired, and her apparent powerlessness to change the course?  There is evidence that my mother asked me repeatedly if I was being hurt; it seems I never felt safe enough to tell her the truth.

My mother only sang the chorus and the first verse to me, that I can recall. But the verses of You Are My Sunshine continue in this way. Once, I dreamed I held you in my arms, but it was only a mirage.  You have left me to love another, and you have shattered all my dreams.  I wonder, is this song about love, or is it about grief?  I love you, the song proclaims, you are everything to me. Don't leave me, the verse threatens, you will regret it.  I love you, come back to me, blame me, I will forgive you.  I cannot decide if this song is a story of love, or a story of loss. Perhaps, as is so often the case, the answer isn't either/or.  Instead, it is both/and.

Motherhood is like that. It is love, and it is grief. It is this intense loss of self, where each day I must find a way to give more and more and more of me over for my children. I must learn how to put their needs before my own, and yet I must also take care of myself just enough that I have the strength to love them well. I must prepare myself for the day when I will allow my children to step outside my love, and consider the grief I may experience. At its core, You Are My Sunshine perfectly conveys the all consuming love that being a mother becomes, along with recognizing the ways in which mothers may endure tremendous loss.

The questions I ask myself about motherhood do not have easy answers. When I think of my mother, it seems easier at times to move forward if I believe that she allowed the abuse in my life to occur because she didn't care, she valued only herself and her own interests.  The harder truth to endure is the belief that most likely she loved me deeply, and the hurt I experienced pained her too.  Our shared sorrow results in our shared brokenness and inability to find our way to reconciliation.  The gray skies take over, the storm is too great, and the sunshine of our connection has all been taken away.

I believe that You Are My Sunshine should be the lullaby for mothers, rather than a song we sing for children. It is the song of mothers whose little ones brighten every day, even though at the same time those women are battling the stormy gray clouds of all that life sets before them. It is also the cry of mothers who lost their babies far too soon, who may wake at night dreaming of their children somehow taken from them. You Are My Sunshine is the chorus of mothers whose babies are grown and walking around without them, mothers who are simultaneously proud and lonely. The song fully reflects the intense love and the overwhelming grief that some stages of motherhood may place into a heart. You Are My Sunshine is my lullaby; it is the song that allows me to feel the weight of mothering and the hope of love that will endure. You Are My Sunshine is the lullaby my own mother sang over me, when she didn’t even realize the depth of its truth.

This Mother’s Day, I choose to remember that my mother sang to me.  I choose to believe that in those moments, the words she sang were true.  I choose to believe that my mother loved me, even if she didn't know how to exercise that love to protect me.  In that belief is more sorrow than comfort, knowing that the choices made years ago have altered our relationship forever.  Still, this Mother’s Day I also choose to keep singing You Are My Sunshine to my children, because it always is both/and. Life will always be both/and, my story will always be both/and, motherhood will always be both/and.  Love and pain, hurt and healing, sunshine and gray skies all tangled up together.

You can listen to a beautiful and true version of You Are My Sunshine performed by The Civil Wars here.