There’s a country song I used to hear on the radio—back when I lived in the South. I remember two snatches of the chorus and the general plot of the song, which was about moving away from a best friend as a child, going through divorce as an adult, and anticipating the loss of her mother (a true country song!), who told her ‘time will ease your pain’ and ‘life’s about changin’— nothin’ ever stays the same’.
Somewhere along life’s way, I have begun to understand the truth of both of those things more deeply. While I am not sure that time heals, I have experienced the weakening grip of grief as the loss drops further into the past. That’s not to say that it doesn’t trip me up when I am not expecting it, but that it doesn’t squeeze me so hard that I struggle to draw breath. And life is about changing. Everything changes. Nowhere do I see this more clearly than in my own children. Infants become toddlers and toddlers go off to school, where they advance year by year, becoming teenagers in what seems like the blink of an eye.
Of course kids grow up, and that’s good, right? I suppose so. But I don’t always experience it in that way—and not just when my older teenager is yelling at me. There is a sense of deep sadness I experience when I look at photos of my babies. I looked forward to being a mother of babies and toddlers more than I looked forward to anything else in my adult life. And now that time is over. Gone. It’s not coming back. As much as I long to go back, just for an hour, and hold that baby whose photo sits on my desk, I can’t. ‘Life’s about changin”, and it isn’t easy.
Unfortunately, this is the sort of loss that time doesn’t ease as well as one might hope. Because it recurs every day, or nearly every day. I miss the baby I nursed and the toddler learning to talk and the preschooler full of wonder and curiosity. In a few years, I’ll miss the child and then the teenager. One loss recedes, and another takes its place. It has to be this way: ‘nothin’ ever stays the same’.
I don’t expect that every parent, or even every mother, experiences the growing-up of children as loss; neither do I believe that I am unique in this respect. Of course there are joys as well—seeing the children learn to do new things and become more mature is a delight, too. Yet the delight is never unalloyed. The difficulty is compounded by the feeling I often have that I didn’t know what I was doing and so I made mistakes—and that those mistakes have shaped my kids in unhealthy ways. The loss I experience is tinged with regret, the loss of an opportunity to help my child develop strength, courage, compassion, or gentleness.
Sometimes it feels pretty dark. I remember sitting in front of a statue of Mary with the infant Jesus in her arms and feeling unbearably sad. Doubly so, because the chapel in which I was sitting had been one of my ‘thin places’—I was used to feeling consolation and peace in that place.
Two things have comforted me in this continual loss that is motherhood. The first is the pietà—the statue of Mary holding the body of Jesus after he was taken down from the cross. She must have endured in-between losses just as I have, and then faced the ultimate loss in the death of her son. I can’t say that contemplating the pietà brings joy. Not exactly. But there is a sense of peace and consolation in being in Mary’s company.
The other thing that has comforted me is the prayer attributed to St Ambrose, sometimes called the penitential prayer. Midway through the prayer, I find words I can say with my whole self: ‘I repent my sins, and I long to put right what I have done.’ Nowhere is this more true than in my parenting. I can’t even begin to name all the mistakes I have made, and—here’s the kicker—there is absolutely nothing I can do to ‘put right what I have done.’ I can do better now, but I can’t fix the past.
I wonder whether Mary worried like that. Did she blame herself for leaving Jesus behind in the temple? Did she wonder whether she had raised him properly as he carried his cross? Did she think maybe it didn’t have to be this way? St Luke tells us she ‘pondered all these things in her heart’ after the shepherds came to see her newborn baby. I don’t imagine she stopped pondering things in her heart. But I don’t think she fretted, at least not in the way I do—a fringe benefit of being ‘full of grace’ may be that there isn’t room for niggling anxiety.
Mary lost her son on that day in Jerusalem. Her grief as she held his body must have been acute. On that day, she had to do what we all have to do—what I, as a mother, have to do: trust. Because I cannot put right what I have done, but there is One who can. Rowan Williams has said that ‘grace can remake, but will not undo’. Even God doesn’t undo those things I wish I hadn’t done. In the redemption of all things, the loss I have felt and the mistakes I have made will all be woven into the re-making. The One who ‘orders all things delightfully’ (Wisdom 8.1) has taken all these things and is putting them in their proper places.
I can’t say that takes away the sadness. It does give me hope, though, not only for the end of all things, but for here and now, in the not-yet. It’s not just time that will ease the pain: God isn’t waiting to put right what I have done wrong; God is doing it even now, though I may not be able to see it. I pray that I will have the grace to co-coperate with the work of redemption and not keep throwing spanners in the works.