The musical gnome

Just around the corner is the day that either gives me great joy or sorrow so deep.  For the past 15 years I have been adjusting to Mother’s Day.   My husband and kids have created a tradition of spoiling me in bed first thing in the morning.  I cherish the handmade cards and egg carton crafts that the kids bring me that special sunday morning.  The toast is cold and the crumbs get in the bed, but the kids look at me like I’m a queen and they love it when I find the gnome  hiding in the sheets with his head on the pillow.  Yes, I have a love affair with garden gnomes!

It seems to erase the anticipation of dread that fills my thoughts before the day happens.  I have been motherless for 15 years.  Almost half my life has been spent without her.  She died of cancer when I was 22.  Sometimes I wonder if I really remember what she was like and if I know what it’s like to be a daughter.  I must have learned somewhere how to tickle backs as I tuck my kids into bed.  I must have learned somehow to make an awesome Duncan Hines box cake.  The few brief years I had being daughtered have weathered well.  I think.  I still mispronounce af-a-ghan, and I still can peaches faithfully every fall.  But the times, they are a changing.  I can’t email her and if she was alive today she would be very old.  94 to be exact.  Surprise.

I was adopted.

The very womb I came from released the obligation of any mother/daughter relationship at birth and forever set in my course the fear of being rejected.  Deep in my psyche hides that fear, rearing it’s ugly head every Mothers day.  It leaves me alone on Father’s Day.  I am able to take comfort that he doesn’t know I exist and therefore he did not reject me.  But my birth mother was mentally unstable.  Not because of “me being so amazing how could she not want me unstable,” but rather she was schizophrenic, bipolar, and full of emotional baggage.

  13 For you created my inmost being;
you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
14 I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
your works are wonderful,
I know that full well.
15 My frame was not hidden from you
when I was made in the secret place,
when I was woven together in the depths of the earth.
16 Your eyes saw my unformed body;
all the days ordained for me were written in your book
before one of them came to be.

Was I really planned?  Because from all accounts I seem like a mistake.  Someone dependent on the mercy of Aneta & Percy Wicks, people who cared for me and ‘loved’ me.

I grab on to Psalm 139 and treasure it for dear life because that’s all I have.

Faith in the bigger picture.  That God is bigger than all the mistakes we make yet so very concerned with our very tiny parts.

Happy Mother’s Day.

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