All mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated; God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice; but God's hand is in every translation, and his hand shall bind up all our scattered leaves again for that library where every book shall lie open to one another. John Donne Meditation XVII 

I understand that I can hardly speak for boys and their dads, but it seems to me that you fellows are the flip side of my recent mother daughter reflections, so stay with me as I muse on becoming that from which I have fought so fervently to differentiate myself. 

I am unashamedly and unequivocally Daddy’s girl.  I have been for as long as I can remember.  When Mom stood firm on her fiscal restraint when I didn’t really need a new blouse in third grade, Dad lobbied for a discount store and slipped me money.  Of course, it was transparently evident that the same thing was happening on the flip side for my brother, so there seemed to be a balance in the system. 

The fervent goal of much of my adult life was to be as little like my mother as possible, forging a busy routine rather than the patient and methodical rhythm of my mother’s impossibly slow life, answering quickly and directly to avoid the endless wait for an answer to the simplest question.  Where she complied with every directive, actually, required a directive in order to function, I sought creative solutions and purposely found my own way.

It seems to me that girls declare their independence by differentiating themselves from their mothers while relying on their father as the home harbor.  Boys have to beat Dad at one-on-one to declare their independent manhood, while flying home to Momma for their safe haven. 

In the end, we are established as autonomous adults and a girl’s mother may become her friend.  As I have lived far from home, well, 3 hours by car, most of my adult life, it has been interesting to move in with my aging parents for several years, then settle in the house across the street to be nearby as they age.  The dynamics of the relationship moving back into my old room as a 57 year old woman – well, I hardly want to go there, but let’s say that it was both a blessing and a curse.  I have a flexible nature, so found ways to see the value of learning to live without my own familiar home environment. 

My relationship with my mother grew and changed as I saw more of the parts of myself that are a page from her book, parts of me that I value.  Our evenings together over Scrabble games and papers to grade or knitting or a book to read (because she takes that long to find the best word) gave us endless pleasure.  We prayed and sang in worship together, laughed and cried at movies, hers and mine, kept Dad awake at the symphony, and dined together.  She felt she was taking care of me, cooking my dinner, offering leftovers for lunch.  She insisted on getting up early to breakfast with me – the perk being my fresh ground French pressed coffee – right up to her last weeks.

As Mom’s health declined, I both focused in on her needs and distanced myself from her diminishing abilities.  I found it hard to watch, frustrating not to be able to fix her ills, and most agonizing of all, I found myself walking the woulda coulda shoulda path.  When she died 3 weeks ago, Dad turned to us with tears in his eyes and asked, “Will they arrest me for murder for starving her to death?”  She had not eaten her last day, as much as we coaxed her.  She had drunk her protein supplement, but no amount of Dad urging had put food in her mouth. 

He and I both took that dark journey, one that others bemoan but which must be travelled to finally come to peace with the death of one in your care. He worried over feeding her, I worried over her medical care.  Had I missed some telling symptom, something treatable?  Could I have better dealt with some other issue?  It’s a long walk to be taking at the same time I was feeling such remorse for the faults I found in my mother, the ways I tried to not be like her. 

In the end, I see my mother as the human gift that she was, the imperfect woman doing her best for those she loved in a world that rarely stops to value what she embodied:   gentleness of spirit, compassionate love for all God’s creatures, patient forbearance, attentive and solicitous listening, generosity, and loyalty.  She knew no stranger and had no enemy.  I miss you, Mom.