Hope in the Face of a Ring Bearer

Recently I had the honor of preaching at the wedding of two women on the banks of a lake in Knoxville, TN. The couple is organized and plans way ahead. They asked me over a year and a half ago if I would be a part of their big celebration. I was thrilled at the news of their engagement. I put the wedding date on my calendar and looked forward to being in Knoxville with them.
After such a long period of planning and anticipation, I was excited when the weekend finally arrived. I found the wedding location, a beautiful barn built specifically for big events and boasting views of the lake, and met up with the priest who was presiding over the wedding. The wedding planner connected with us and we were delighted to find she was great to work with.
The other priest and I walked down to the site of the ceremony and waited as the planner organized the wedding party and sent them our way. The bridesmaids and “best buds” found their places on either side of us and the two brides entered on either arm of the daughter of one of the brides. They were all smiles and love seemed to become a mother hen, fluffing us under her wings as she came to settle over us all.
My colleague walked the wedding party through the ceremony and reached the point where the ring bearer needed to step forward to hand over the rings. Of course, the maid of honor and best bud had the actual rings. The ring bearer carried two decoys in a little blue box. We’ve all learned not to entrust a five-year-old with diamonds at this point.
The priest asked the ringbearer to come forward for his big moment. He squeezed between two of the best buds and came to stand just to the right of the couple, then looked up at the two brides. Usually a ring bearer will anxiously hand off his pillow or box then scoot back to his parents or grandparents, but this little boy decided to stay and watch.
As the officiant walked each bride through her words as she presented a pretend ring to her betrothed, the ring bearer looked up at them in wonder. He knew something special was happening here, that he had an important job and now was a part of a significant moment. I chose to watch him, his eyes wide and full of curiosity and inquisitiveness. He wasn’t marveling that there were two brides. Rather, he had the same look as all other ring bearers trying to figure out why this was so important. He was watching and learning about love and the weight of the commitment made by two people who love each other deeply.
I was awash with hopefulness. There is plenty in the news today to have me discouraged, anxious, and even frightened at moments. I get down on people and lose hope in humanity, feeling that we seem hell-bent on ruining all of creation and hurting one another . But then this little boy stood there, eyes full of wonder, and my heart softened. Hope came back to me.
That little boy will never know a time when people of the same gender were prevented from proclaiming their love for one another in a marriage ceremony, recognized by the state as a sign of their commitment, on equal footing as every couple of opposite gender. For him, two women are as much a married couple as a man and a woman, same as for two men. The world has changed for the better and he will only know that improved reality, the same as my own children. My kids always have had friends with two mommies or two daddies, as well as friends with a mommy and a daddy.
The father of one of the brides originally had threatened not to attend the wedding. He’s a Southern Baptist preacher and had long condemned homosexuality. “Gay marriage” as an abstract concept is easier to argue against than when it comes home and you see it in action, defying long-held theological beliefs. We hold our beliefs and doctrine tightly and any threat to them can feel like a threat to our very identity. Many family members of LGBTQ friends have had to struggle with the conflict between beliefs they were handed and the reality of love in action as evidenced in front of them. It’s a hard struggle and not to be minimized.
In this instance, the father set aside his objections and decided to come. Likely, he realized it would be hard to live with the regret of not attending his daughter’s wedding. He was there at the rehearsal, watching and learning right along with the little ring bearer. His expression might have been quite different from that of the little boy, but he was absorbing the activity all the same. During the ceremony I saw him watching intently, witnessing the depth of love his daughter shared with her bride. He could not escape the warmth of the wings of love as the mother hen settled further on us all, enveloping us in our tears and joy.
I had to leave soon after saying grace at the reception but not before I saw this same father catch his daughter up for a traditional father-daughter dance for all to see. I learned later that after he danced with his daughter, he asked to dance with her bride. It brings tears to my eyes just thinking about it. By the grace of God, people change; we change; the world changes.
The mother hen of grace and love is determined to pull us all under her wing, regardless of our efforts to resist. God wants us together, celebrating love at every turn. We need these moments, these brides, the little ring bearer, and the reconciled father. We need to see the power of the Spirit working in the world, determinedly marching us towards justice and love, regardless of our rebellions and in our best interest.

Dedication, Zeal, and the Love of My Momma

I never went through a rebellious teenager phase. My parents can verify that. My brother didn’t either. He was too busy fishing and hunting and I was too busy pushing classmates to sign the “Prom Promise” that they wouldn’t drink and drive on Prom night. We were pretty chill teenagers.

However, I did have behaviors that drove my parents crazy, especially my mom. At the top of the list: not having a tidy room. My brother is older and always has kept a clean space. Even his closets stayed fairly neat. None of that could be said about my bedroom growing up (or now, for that fact). Some people walk into a room and immediately spot any piles of papers or stacks of detritus. I don’t see these things until they are about to spill and take over the room. I mean that. My brain does not register the presence of these stacks and piles.

This lack of vision on my part became evident pretty early on and my mom would beg me to straighten up my room. After countless arguments, we struck a bargain when I was thirteen: She wouldn’t come in my room. It’s not that I didn’t want her there; it was for her own mental health.

My room is just one example of many points of contention. I was not a perfect child, no one is, and I made my fair share of eye rolls at things my mom did and said. I was frustrated by ways she pushed me to improve and change. Like any normal kid, I found my mom’s parenting annoying at times. In the back of my mind, I think I knew it was her job but did she have to do it so passionately and with such zealous dedication?

Her worrying and encouraging didn’t stop when I graduated from college or even seminary. It seems a mom never retires. When I was pregnant with our first child, she checked in on me regularly and made countless trips from Georgia to DC to help prepare our townhouse for the arrival of baby. She hopped a plane at the first signs of contractions and stayed with us for over a month to wait, deliver, and care for our little Peanut.

We waited for two weeks for the baby to come and in that time my mom and I made countless trips to BabysRUs and Target. She made even more on her own and came back with ideas and supplies for entire systems of care. One day I came into the kitchen to find her setting up a multi-tub system on the kitchen bar for sorting and drying pacifiers and bottle parts. There was a box for non-sterilized items, one for drying sterilized items, and another with a lid for dried sterilized items. I remember chuckling in my mind and thinking, “Classic Mom.”

Our oldest arrived and we struggled. Hannah was not a good nurser and I had no idea what I was doing. I felt inadequate, made exponentially worse by a nurse in the hospital who witnessed me struggling to get Hannah to latch and said, “God did not bless you with good nipples.” Thanks, Lady! Hannah was jaundice, which made her sleepy, and she wasn’t an eager eater. She still isn’t. As a toddler it was impossible to get her to sit for more than eight or nine minutes to eat. Even now, she’ll perch on her chair rather than sitting, just in case there’s something that catches her eye that’s more interesting.
The fighter in my mom came out strong. She was eager to organize and advocate for Hannah and for me. She and my father took turns, in the wee hours of the morning, making Hannah take bottles of pumped milk by tickling her feet and rubbing below her collar bone to keep her from falling asleep. I escaped falling into despair at my inadequacy as an inept nursing mother because my own mother found, made an appointment, and took me to a nursing specialist. I cried many tears because I thought it was my fault Hannah was jaundice and that she couldn’t nurse. That all changed, thanks to the coaching of the specialist and encouragement from my mom.

A few days before my mom left us, she and I were standing in the kitchen together. All of a sudden, the tumblers in my brain fell into place and I understood my mother and her zealous parenting. The love and desperation I felt for my daughter lined up with the years of my mother’s apparent meddling and worrying. All at once, I thought, “Holy crap! I get her now!” I remembering turning to her and saying as much. I thanked her and I might even have apologized.

I know this story will not resonate with everyone. It might not even resonate with most people. I understand how exceptional this is and here’s why: My mother’s mother died when she was six-years-old. She never had the opportunity to roll her eyes at her mother’s fretting. She never got to have her mother help her through her tough first pregnancy and delivery.  She didn’t get a moment like mine in the kitchen with her mother. Nearly all of the work my mom has done in her role of “mother,” she has learned on the fly. She didn’t have a template to follow or even from which to deviate.

Not everyone has pretty little stories that feature them with their mothers. Some people struggle with failing or nonexistent relationships with their mothers. Heartbreakingly, some will only have memories of abuse and neglect by their mothers. Still others, like my mother, never had a mother present with whom to have a relationship. It is to all of you that I offer my story.

For me, my mother’s story is one of redemption and hope. She and I never could have had our kitchen moment without her work. She wanted something different for her life as a mother and for us as her children than what she had as a child. Void of any real model for motherhood, she found other ways to learn and grow into her motherly vocation. It hasn’t been perfect or always pretty. She can tell you about her disappointments and perceived failures. But her determination and dedication made my world very different from what it could have been.

We don’t have to repeat the story we have been given. We don’t have to follow anyone else’s model of what it means to be a mother or be paralyzed by the absence of a model. We aren’t going to do it perfectly or even gracefully. At times we will feel like we are winning at parenting and other times we will feel like absolute failures. What matters is how we nurture the love we have to give and allow that love to fuel our dedication and zeal.

One of my favorite words is “steadfast.” People talk about the “patience” of Job, but I prefer the translations that substitute the word “steadfastness.” Job was faithful, even through his frustrations and anger. He was dedicated to God despite all he experienced.

I haven’t always agreed with my mother’s methods, far from it, but I will forever appreciate her steadfast dedication and love. That steadfastness made her a nurturing mother, against all odds, and has given me a good model to follow. It’s not only a model for being a mother but a model of hope for how to survive and then thrive. Because of her story, I understand more fully the power of redemption. I pray it will offer all of you hope as well.

Thank you, Mom, for being a fighter, a worrier, and my mother.