Patches of leftover snow lie in the fence line like worn-out bandages that have been discarded. The rains came down, melting away much of the white, though the farmers are grateful for the moisture seeping into the fallow fields and the water table below. The honking of geese overhead belies the time of year. Dried and depleted hydrangea heads shiver in the wind, still daringly beautiful in their spent state. There is a drabness to the days; even the daytime has the touch of darkness as the longest nights of the year lay in. Lamplight, candlelight, and moonlight pair so well with the waiting and watching of the drawing darkness of the season. But even in the drear, in the seemingly lack-luster, damp days, exquisite wonder and beauty are tucked into the corners.
Each year, at the beginning of Advent, I hang a watercolour print entitled “Mother and Her Child”, purchased almost a decade ago in Charleston, South Carolina . The artist is Virginia Fouche Bolton. I bought this print with a $35, loaded visa card given to us after enduring endless, gruelling hours of time-share information talks that we naively allowed ourselves to be coerced into attending when we checked in at the visitor’s center upon our arrival at the city. While that experience was something from the abyss, that small gift card was in hand when I browsed through a box of prints at a plantation that we toured later in our visit. In that box, I found a treasure that redeemed those tedious hours of the on and on droning as well as redeemed the visa card. The mother’s face in the painting is sorrowful, carrying the weight of a long wounding. She gazes at the tot on her knee with a knowing of the hard life ahead. The child, innocent and tranquil, is fingering the opening in the mother’s top, seemingly looking for the comfort of nursing. This watercolour print was immediately compelling and has become cherished.
Another print, which stays up year-round, was a gift of different kind. Years ago, a friend gave a book entitled “Portrait of a Woman” by Herbert O’Driscoll. O’Driscoll writes a tender reimagining of what Mary, the mother of Jesus, may have thought, felt, and experienced when her life was upended, adding to it his own thoughtful reflections. On the cover of the book is a picture of a mother and her child, but there is no visible artist or credit to the artist with the publishing information. My attempts to source it were futile. Then, in the happy happenstance that occasionally happens with thrifting, there it was leaning amongst other donated and discarded artwork, that very picture framed and ready to hang on my stone wall. An $8 miracle of sorts. The larger print made it possible to see the artist’s name – (Julius) Gari Melchers. In this picture, entitled “Mother and Child”, the young mother stares unflinchingly back at you, her child held protectively in her arms. The painter specialized in Dutch peasant life which is evidenced in this particular work. There is a sturdy simplicity apparent in the mother and her baby, who, turning to peer at you, has the chubby cheeks of high-fat milk nourishment.
These depictions of the nativity help to unseat some of my unconscious imagery of Mary and her baby, making them more human. Mary was young, very young. Presumably uneducated. Did she feel insignificant? From whence came a wisdom and a courage to say “yes” to that daunting ask, an ask that changed the trajectory of her life? Would she have defined her faith, like my own mother did, as simple? Could the likes of a simple faith open the way to an acceptance that enlarges life? In his thin book of reflections, O’Driscoll writes that “For those who say Yes nothing is ever the same again.”
Naomi, mother of seven (six living), too said what initially was a reluctant “yes” to a call to move from her small-town home with its garden out back and dear neighbours next door to a remote village in northwestern Ontario where everything was unfamiliar. That reluctant but decided yes brought out a blossoming of her ability, flexibility, and hospitality, all of which Mom attributed to a strength given to her from God. The move was daunting, family was skeptical, their community less than supportive, but she along with Dad said “yes” despite what people may have been thinking. And nothing was ever the same again.
I was four when we moved north, so was able to settle in easily, and my childhood felt normal to me. Only as I aged, entering the more middle years of adulthood, did I realize the extent of Mom’s courage to say yes. Knowing her deep preference for home and what was familiar, further added to my admiration of her choosing the harder way.
Mom would chuckle at my musings, stitching together Advent reflections with missing her. “Ach”, she would say, amused, “Now what are you putting on your ‘blob’? Or ‘glob’?”, and we would laugh together at her mispronunciation of the word. This mother, when we delved into the mysteries of our faith journeys, often at her initiative, would define her faith as a simple one. And maybe it was. This mother, who literally coloured inside the lines as she contentedly tapped her stylus on her tablet filling pictures with colour that she then sent to us, let the love that formed her simple faith inform her how to love. And love is often messy. One of her mantras to her children was, “Let’s just love and accept each other”. This would be said when we hit rough patches as a family or we siblings would have differences. I have heard of mothers who sow dissension among their families, but this mother of ours wanted her brood to love each other, accept each other. It wasn’t perfect. Sometimes “let’s just love and accept each other” can feel dismissive or conflict avoidant. But, ultimately, her motivation was a love for us, and her stance left a legacy of a matriarchal presence that knew each of her children and wanted us all to be well. What a gift.
Mom, you are sorely missed…
Now, as the last, long days of Advent acquiesce to a lengthened light, may we find a way to turn toward it and open ourselves to it, bathing in the soft love within it, choosing to find and say some kind of yes.
Love. Lighting a candle for love.