Depending on our experiences, the word mother can evoke images of a warm, welcoming woman or turn our blood to ice. Whether good or bad, whether redemptive or destructive, our relationships with our mothers affected us to the core of our beings, helping to shape us into the women we have become. The relationship between a mother and a daughter is a holy, tender, fierce thing fraught with land mines and umbilical cords that stretch and sometimes strangle. The desire in a daughter to please her mother is matched only by her desire to be separate from her.
I would say more often than not-my relationship with my mom has been through more ups and downs than I care to admit. My relationship with my mother was strained. It was painful. For both of us. Our communication was filled with hidden meanings and misunderstandings.
Mine and my mom’s relationship went through a stormy season when I was in college. Hormones raged and the brunt of the raging often landed on my mom. Words were flung, accusations aimed at the heart. I still remember the first time my mom uttered the words, “You’re not going to wear that, are you?” in response to her thinking I needed to dress more ‘girly.’ First cut. This ultimately lead to the first lie I believed: I was a disappointment. I began making choices that lead to a life God didn’t intend for me. Then, my mom made the mistake of believing I was a reflection of her and therefore the verdict on her as a mother and as a woman. She was disappointed and wounded deeply when I made choices foreign to what she would have chosen. Second cut. This lead me to believe the lie that: I was too much for her. She tried to set things right; and I pulled away even further to establish my own identity. Third cut. This led me to now close off my heart completely. It took years for my mom and I to reconcile our differences and even enjoy them.
I don’t know exactly when, but my mom and I started to become more graceful with each other. I know it began after I looked honestly at my childhood and grieved deeply the wounds my parents had dealt me, inflicted by action as well as inaction. Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents greatly—and they are flippin amazing parents. Please don’t be hearing that I hate my parents or that I wasn’t loved as a child. I am well aware that I was provided ample opportunities that not a lot of other kids had because of my parents’ love and generosity. But, like all parents, none are perfect. I’d been angry. I’d been sorrowful. And after a season, I was able to forgive. My mom and I began to enjoy, even celebrate, our shared faith in God, and not debate the differences.
Over the years, the Lord has revealed to me that the way my mom made me feel was exactly the way I made her feel. A disappointment. An embarrassment. A failure. The first time I realized this, I knew with clarity that it was true. I then felt her sorrow. I began to see some of her irritating comments towards me in a new light. She wanted me to like her, to know her, and enjoy her as much as I wanted her to feel that way about me. And I had withheld my acceptance from her. The Lord helped me realize just how deeply I had wounded her. After that realization-was probably the first time I had offered my mom my true heart. I was deeply sorry and I loved who she was. I was proud of her. I was glad she was my mom. And I asked her to forgive me. She couldn’t speak. And she didn’t have to. It was the first time my mom and I embraced with nothing in between us. The Lord had healed us. It is a sweet relationship that I find myself praying over often.
I used to be annoyed and threatened by the word repentance, until I figured out what is really means to me. Repentance is the magical moment when a sliver of light finds its way into a place of darkness in my heart, and I’m able to see clearly how my jerkiness is keeping me from peace and joy in a specific area of my life.
Maya Angelou shined a light into the dark part of my heart where I used to keep my relationship with my mom. In her book, Letter to My Daughter, Angelou writes about a dinner party she attended during her first trip to Senegal at the home of a very rich and sophisticated friend. As Angelou explored the house and observed the elegant guests, she noticed that they were all carefully stepping around the beautiful, expensive rug in the middle of the floor to avoid dirtying it. She became appalled that her hostess would be so shallow as to value her things above her guests’ comfort. Angelou decided to act; she stepped onto the rug and walked back and forth several times. The guests, who were “bunched up on the sidelines, smiled at her weakly.” Angelou smiled back, proud that through her boldness they might also be “encouraged to admit that rugs were to be walked on.”
She then joined the guests on the sidelines, her head held high. She had done what was right.
A few minutes later, the servants came out and quietly removed the rug from the floor, replacing it with an equally extravagant one. They then proceeded to carefully place the plates, glasses, wine, and bowls of rice and chicken on the new rug. Angelou’s hostess clapped her hands and announced joyfully that they were serving Senegal’s most beloved meal “for our Sister from America, Maya Angelou.” She then asked all the guests to sit. Angelou’s face burned.
She dragged her dirty shoes all over her gracious hostess’s tablecloth. Angelou concluded her story with this: “In an unfamiliar culture, it is wise to offer no innovations, no suggestions or lessons. The epitome of sophistication is utter simplicity.”
Sometimes as you get older, the mother-daughter relationship can seem like an unfamiliar culture. Communication is different, celebrations are different, mealtimes become different, and expressions of love are different. Growing up, I found this to be unacceptable. To me, different meant wrong. I became offended and perpetually suspicious. In a million subtle and not-so-subtle ways, I tried to change my mom. I suggested new traditions. I offered advice. I found fault with her personality and marriage and her friendships. I dragged my dirty shoes all over my mom’s tablecloth. The one she’d spent decades carefully weaving.
I imagine my refusal to accept my mom hurt her deeply. She tried and tried, pushed and pushed, wanting things to be better between us. But eventually, she gave me time and space to work it out on my own. She bowed out. That must have been a hard decision, one I pray I never have to make with my own daughter. I pray that my future daughter will be wiser and kinder than I from the start. She probably won’t be, though. She’ll probably be just like me. She’ll want to create her own weaving pattern, which might mean that she’ll need to walk all over mine for a while.
As a young daughter, establishing a pattern that suited me was difficult. Learning to weave required all of my attention. I needed time and space to establish my own rhythm and style, and perhaps my rejection of the old patterns was necessary to the discovery of my own.
True repentance is messy, and it takes time, but that sliver of light is worth waiting for. And when it’s real, it sticks. Thank you, Ms. Angelou, for leading me to repentance.
I don’t believe in advice. Everybody has the answers right inside her, since we’re all made up of the same amount of God. So when a friend says, I need some advice, I switch to, I need some love, and I try to offer that. Offering love usually looks like being quiet, listening hard, and letting my friend talk until she discovers that she already has the answers. I think friends ask me for advice because they know I won’t offer any. People need a safe place and some time to discover what they already know. So I just try to hold space and time for people. So I’m not big on advice, mainly because most days I learn what an idiot I was yesterday. This is hopeful, because it means I’m moving in the right direction. But it also makes it risky to offer wisdom today. Even so, I feel safe suggesting this:
To all the Moms, enjoy watching your daughter learn to weave. When she makes a mistake, when she drops a stitch, allow her to notice it on her own. Tell her often how beautiful her pattern is. Be kinder than necessary. Bring her some tea. Be simple. Be sophisticated.
And to all the daughters, notice the beauty of the tablecloth that your mom spent a lifetime weaving. Remember that her pattern is mostly firmly established—no need to suggest improvements. Be kinder than necessary, being mindful that the piece of art took her a lifetime to weave—her masterpiece—she gave you, to keep you warm at night. One day you’ll give your masterpiece away too. Be simple. Be sophisticated.
In just one short week, my squad will get to experience a Parent Vision Trip (PVT) with our parents. PVT is when we, as World Racers, get to invite our parents to join us on the mission field for one week. I just want to say to all the mothers of my dear sisters on my squad—To Krystyna, Stephanie, Karen, Julie, Lynette and Lisa, Melanie, Amy, LoAnn, Debbie Jo, Aynn, Chrissy, Channin, Marty, and Candy: You’ve done a damn good job. These women, my sisters, your daughters have weaved one hell of a tablecloth. We’ve all had our share of mistaking each other’s for rugs at times. But I couldn’t be more excited for you to get to see the masterpiece your daughter has created. I’m extremely proud to call each one of them my sister.
And to my Mom, Cyndi—I love you. I know you’re sad you won’t be here with Dad and I in Thailand. But I promise, we will sit down when I get home, I will shake out my tablecloth, and you can look at it, marvel, and touch it all you want. Because that’s what mothers do. That’s what you do. You’ve always been there. You possess a love for your daughter that compares to no one else. And I don’t know at what point in my life that your affection stopped embarrassing me. Because now, I welcome it.
And for my squad sisters: This. Is. Twenty. Nine.
