Monday Manna

Grief is Love and some thoughts for Mother's Day...

If you are new to Monday Manna, I’m so glad you are here. My prayer with this little pause on Monday mornings is to offer some nourishment (“manna”) for you — via my reflection, prayer, and painting — as you are nourishing the world around you. Together, we are watching for the ways God is with us and for us as we take one day at a time….

Good morning, friends, and much peace to your hearts this week ~

I initially didn’t want to write a pre-Mother’s Day Manna — this Mother’s Day holds some tender grief for me this year. Now, I will first say there are many reasons I love Mother’s Day. Though culturally it’s been co-opted in restrictive ways, I personally view it as a time to celebrate the expansive ways women mother and nurture, as this comes through much more than a biological relationship. I also say this while having the privilege and grace-filled gift of three beautiful, healthy children, which is a blessing I am continually humbled to have. And yet….for today, I want to reflect a bit on the grief of Mother’s Day, and how God meets us in it.

I’m guessing I’m not alone in holding grief this Mother’s Day. There are all kinds of reasons it could feel hard for you this year — maybe your mom died or left you or is sick; maybe you and your mom have or had a broken relationship, or at the least, it feels *complicated*; maybe you’re a mother yourself and things are really rough with one of your kids right now; maybe you have longed and prayed and done all the things to try and have a baby, and it remains a dream deferred; maybe your child died, which I can only imagine as the closest thing to hell on earth.

In my own case, as I’ve written about here before, my mom was diagnosed some years ago with early on-set Alzheimer’s type-dementia — a revelation that shocked and scared us all. One hears about the “long, slow goodbye” of Alzheimer’s, but there is no way to grasp its gutting until you are walking each of those many steps — and at times, leaps — yourself. As a beloved friend whose mom had Alzheimer’s once told me, this paradoxical path is exhausting and tender, heart-breaking and heart-filling, utter depletion and restorative grace, all tangled up together.

When the staff of my mom’s assisted living first told us she needed to move to memory care, there was so much inner wrestling for me….this seems too early. She can’t need it yet. And the most paralyzing question of all, asked repeatedly in this journey, is this the right decision?

But in a year and a half’s time, my still beautiful and soulful mom no longer recognizes me without my telling her who I am. I look into her face as she looks into mine —  her hopeful eyes simultaneously filled with deepest love, knowing, and yearning, as she searches and scans my face. She knows me even though she doesn’t recognize me. On my last visit, there were times she would clasp my hand in both of hers and ask, “is it you?” It is in these moments I lean with all my weight into Psalm 42…somehow, “deep calls to deep,” and my mom knows deep within her it is me.

There are two big things God’s given to help me on this path which I will tell you now. One is is a promise, the other a lesson.

God has promised me that my mom is not — nor is any part of her — being lost. There’s so much language in the Alzheimer’s world about “losing” — that a loved one is “losing” their memory or those surrounding them are “losing” them, bit by agonizing bit. But I will forever name that one of the most profound gifts I received early on was the realization — the promise — that my mom is moving to heaven in pieces. While more and more of her crosses that threshold to be with my dad, I can grab onto the grace that some of the parts I treasure most in her — her gracious spirit, loving presence, caring disposition, and deep faith —  remain with me on this side of the veil, at least for now.

And then…

Grief is love. I’ve heard this in different places and from different people recently, most profoundly in a recent sermon from Jen Harvey, but this transformative lesson is one I offer to you. That ache you feel, that breath-taking pain, is your love. You feel the grief because of the depth of your love — the love you shared, the love you received, the love you wanted to give but never got to… I do believe grief is love, and we know if we are grounded in love, we’re grounded in God’s presence.

And so I am trying to embrace my grief, trusting it is the love I wouldn’t exchange for anything. I sit with and soak in the gift of my mom’s presence, even as things are changing. I give myself permission now to take more breaks and care for myself (it is hard to be in a memory care unit all day, and if you are a loved one of someone in memory care reading this, I hope you will free yourself of any guilt or pressure).

I trust my mom is loved, she is held, and all will be well.

On my most recent visit, my mom and I shared multiple periods of time resting on her bed together, listening to Fernando Ortega, or me reading to her. At one point, I opened up a white envelope from her church — a community which continues to carry her, even though she can no longer attend worship. Inside was a devotional piece chronicling the story of how the hymn, “It is well with my soul,” by Horatio Spafford, was written. Spafford was a very successful businessman and lawyer in Chicago who suffered many tragedies. He lost much of what he had in the Chicago fire of 1871, then the death of his young son. He planned a trip to Europe for his family so they could have some respite together. When a last minute business need arose, Spafford sent his wife and four daughters on the boat with plans to leave in a handful of days to follow them. But the boat carrying Spafford’s family sank, with only his wife surviving.

The story goes that when Spafford was on board his own boat to travel to his grieving wife in Europe, the captain alerted him when they were crossing the place where his family’s ship sank. It was then Spafford began writing the now famous hymn, “It is well with my soul.”

I finished reading the story to my mom, and then my mom began to sing….a soft smile was on her face, her eyes alive, as she sang from her deepest form of memory…

When peace like a river attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot Thou hast taught me to say,
“It is well, it is well with my soul!”

It is well with my soul!
It is well, it is well with my soul!

I sat in both awe and tears, realizing while grief can gut us, God’s Spirit makes a home in that cavernous space that somehow transforms us. Nothing is lost, but is tucked away in God’s heart. It can be well — it is well — with our souls. And when my mom can no longer hold onto her faith, her faith will hold on to her, with God closer than her own breath.

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A Prayer

This short prayer from my book, Ash and Starlight: Prayers for the Chaos and Grace of Daily Life, Second Edition, is for our goodbyes…be they swift and sudden or slow and painstaking. God is with you in it….

When I’m grieving a goodbye

Compassionate One,

Be with me in my goodbyes.

When I’m asked to

open my hands and

release what I’ve held—

held tightly—

place your peace

between the fingers.

Put your comfort in

the cracks and crevices

of my heart.

Use my falling tears

as nourishment for

this ground of grief,

bearing fruit for

a new season

also promising sweetness.

Amen.

Matthew 5:4 * John 12:24 * Revelation 21:3–5

“[U]nless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it

remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.”

—John 12:24

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Something that nourished me recently…

• My recent visit to my mom….💛

  

• Sending off some of my first Etsy packages since opening the shop a couple weeks ago, and donating to the Hunger Project….It’s really nourished my own heart to write notes and pray for each person I package a piece of art up for. I believe in the spiritual power and love in this. Thank you so much, friends, for your support. I’ve been so touched by each and every person who’s ordered.

  

• This poem which I have read countless times, by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer …

“Ode to the Woman of Odd Jobs” by Rosemerry Wahtola Tommer

She would not put on her resume, Dreamer of Spaces.
Encourager of Humans. Collaborator with Chaos.
Queen of the Incantation. The One Who Brings Drums.
Invoker of Imagination. Co-creator with Wildness.
One Who Lives on The Edge. Maker of Beauty.
But this how she changes the world every day—
with song. With paint. With poems. With trust.
In a time hellbent on hurt and destruction,
into every room, she brings love.
In a chapter defined by the most selfish of us,
she lives into how good humans can be
and invites anyone to join her.
Gives them a pen. A brush. A drum.
Gives them a nudge. A tarot card. An hour.
Feeds them poems. Feeds them dreams.
This, too, is our work in world, though
I doubt she would call it work:
To meet what aches. To do it together.
To open to hopelessness with wonder.
Like an artist. Like a mother.

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Ash and Starlight, plus other good things…

*MY ETSY SHOP ~ There are still some “Strong Women” prints left, and if you’re local to me, I can get it to you by Mother’s Day. Each of these limited edition prints comes with a freebie or two. I am in the process of creating more prints and note cards/greeting cards which I hope to have available later on, but things are moving slowly. In the meantime, there are digital downloads available. You can view the shop here.

*SECOND EDITION OF ASH AND STARLIGHT ~ Find the updated edition of my book here at Chalice or at the Amazon link.

*MONDAY MANNA ARCHIVES ~ You can view previous Substack Monday Manna reflections as a paid subscriber here, or for the really old stuff, go to my website.

*WHAT DOES MANNA MEAN? ~ Check out an earlier post to learn how this little bit of “daily bread” got its name…

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This month is a full one for so many reasons, so I may not be here each week. But know my love and prayers will be. I have been working on writing a prayer for those with a loved one in memory care. If this is you, or you know of someone who’d appreciate it, reply to this email and I’ll send it to you later this week. And if Mother’s Day feels tender for you, too, I hope you can lean into and trust that your grief is your love. And it is holy. And it is God’s home in you.

Love and Light,

Arianne

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