A Benediction for Mothers

Note: A benediction is “a good word” often given at the conclusion of a religious service as a kind of blessing. When I was a pastor, I loved that moment when the atmosphere changed and the Mystery felt almost tangible. Lately, I have been playing around with writing benedictions on various subjects, and what follows is part of that experiment. I know we all have very different experiences of motherhood and those experiences are often difficult, complex, and painful. So I offer this with clear acknowledgement that I do not in any way intend to speak for mothers or anyone else’s experience of motherhood. These are the thoughts of an outsider looking in, based on my own limited experience as the child of, and a husband to, two mothers who have been such blessings to me.

(audio version)

A Benediction for Mothers

In the middle of life’s ordinariness,
you suddenly found yourself at the center of a great mystery,
at the center of the great mystery.

Your body, which a week ago seemed so unexceptional,
had become a miracle; a universe unto itself,
giving sustenance and sanctuary to another.
Your life would never be the same,
and you knew it.

The truth is, it is too much to ask of anyone,
to hold the enormity of it,
the sacredness of it,
the weight and wonder of it.

Thank God the task is so often given to young women.
The rest of us would crumble.

You were frightened at times, of course.
But mostly you just felt blessed. And curious.
Lying at night, you wondered who they would be,
this awakening soul who, for the rest of your life,
would never not be on your mind.

This person who would demand so much of you,
depend on you, reject you, adore you, infuriate you.
And, in return, leave you changed in ways you still can’t explain.

On the day you became two,
you looked into those bright eyes
and something ancient opened.
A connection, not just to them,
but to a wisdom beyond your own.

You still knew nothing.
But you also knew that everything you needed,
was within you.
It was the first paradox of many.

Like how this child could feel so completely of you,
and so uniquely not you.

And how you could so desperately
need a day to yourself,
and then when you got it,
ache to be near them.

And how you could feel so eager,
so hopeful for their future,
and so frightened for it too.

They say that being a mother is to forever have your heart
walking outside your body. But it’s not true.

Being a mother is to have, walking outside your body,
something you love more than your heart,
more than your own life,
more than you knew you were capable of loving,

where it can dream and laugh and do tender, beautiful things,
and where it can struggle, and feel pain, and lose its way.

Could there be anything more difficult?
Or more marvelous?
Is there anything in this human experience
more deserving of our collective awe?
Or, in the end, more holy?