“I have no identity. I didn’t do anything with my life. It seemed like I did at the time, but now it doesn’t seem like I did anything worthwhile. I loved being a mother, but I should have been able to do something more.”
It is my mother speaking. In recent weeks I have sensed a sadness in her, and I want her to let it out. I have pushed, probed, begged her to speak. “Tell me your story, Mom.”
“But I have no story to tell.” Tears. She shakes her head. “No, I can’t do this.”
So I tell her story as I have witnessed it. I know her one great regret, that she never completed the nurses training she started several times, so I affirm and grieve that loss with her; she would have been an extraordinary nurse. But then I remind her of the responsibilities that required her to give up her studies. Grandma Keyser, for example.
Grandma Keyser lived with us and was the only babysitter my brother Danny and I ever had. She made pancakes in magical shapes, hid candy treats she called “sneak sneaks” in the deep pockets of her housedress, told stories of a mythical mountain man named Christopher (and fried “Christopher potatoes” for dinner), and taught us to recite Psalm 23. About the only thing Danny and I ever fought over was Grandma, each of us wishing we could have her all to ourselves.
But there was more to Grandma than we knew as children. She had demons to fight, both physical illnesses and an inner world battered by a hard life. For decades, my mother dealt patiently with Grandma’s physical liabilities and mood swings. In Grandma’s later years, when I visited my parents with my own young children, I stood outside a bedroom door and watched my mother smooth rich creams into Grandma’s parchment skin, spoon ice water into her dry mouth, and readjust the pillows to provide one more fraction of comfort. Grandma died in my parent’s home at ninety-five.
In addition to Grandma Keyser, my mother also had the responsibility of caring for my other grandmother—my bigger-than-life, hilariously outspoken Grandma Barry—during her agonizing battle with cancer. A nurse herself, Grandma Barry had seen many people die. “Don’t let me die in a hospital, Leah,” she instructed my mother. “I know what that’s like and I don’t want it. I want to stay with you.” My mother honored Grandma Barry’s request and tended her open wounds, sorted her medications, and let Grandma boss her around until the very end.
“And remember Dorothy?” I asked Mom. As a hospice volunteer, she had visited Dorothy each week for a year. When Dorothy died, my mother was the first person Dorothy’s son called, not because she was “the lady from hospice,” but because she had become Dorothy’s friend.
Later in life, Mom started nursing school again, but withdrew to follow my father’s dream of long-distance sailing. I reminded Mom that while her peers were settling in to the rigors of a rocking chair, she and dad were crewing on a forty-five-foot sailboat bound for Venezuela. At seventy-four she went snorkeling in the Caribbean while my father windsurfed. Last summer, at seventy-seven, she and my dad used their long history of sailing experiences to help my son, Todd, prepare for his own cruising adventure (see Mothers and Sons and Letting Go).
“Mom, you think you don’t have a story to tell? You have amazing stories to tell—of willing sacrifice, loving service, and out-of-the-ordinary adventures!” By the end of the conversation, Mom and I had talked our way through tears and landed in laughter, celebrating a life well lived.
Mom needed what most of us need at some point: someone to help us “reframe” the story of our life, to help us see it from another perspective.
I recently discovered this again with my daughter.
Shauna had been wondering why she was struggling with an ongoing sense of sadness and shame. “People look at me and think I have a great life,” she said, “and they’re right. I have a loving husband, a delightful child, a supportive extended family, and I’ve just published my first book. What’s wrong with me? Why do I sabotage my life with this paralyzing sadness? It makes me feel bad and crazy and ungrateful.”
But here’s what I see when I reframe Shauna’s view of her life. She and her husband, Aaron, are making a career move, but the details of when and where and how have been uncertain for quite some time. Lingering questions weigh on her: Will they be staying in their current house or should she be packing up to move to a distant city? Should she continue pouring herself with abandon into her current relationships (very much her style) or prepare for the emotional challenge of creating a new circle of friends somewhere else. Should she and Aaron try to have another child soon or wait for a more settled era of life? If they wait, how long will they have to wait?
In the midst of these uncertainties, her best friend moved three thousand miles away. Telephone conversations, however frequent and warm, can’t compete with the soulful conversations they once enjoyed almost daily as they strolled the neighborhood with their infant sons.
Despite the joys of book publication, Shauna is discovering its downside. The travel and speaking necessary to promote books in an increasingly competitive market makes it nearly impossible to do the one thing every successful writer must do: keep on writing. Add to that the occasional bad review and the careless words of caustic bloggers, and the joy of publication quickly morphs into the pain of a battered soul.
On top of all of this, she has a toddler learning the delight of saying no.
Is Shauna weak? Crazy? Or is she experiencing a combination of stressors that would send anyone into an occasional downward spiral?
As we reframed her story from “I should be doing better; I need to try harder,” to “I’ve been going through a really stressful time; I need to be gentle with myself,” Shauna was freed to think creatively about minimizing the emotional toll of her complex life.
I, too, frequently need help to see my life from a different perspective. I recently spent a long afternoon with a friend whose life mirrors mine in many ways: married to a high-energy, highly visible pastor/author/leader; parenting young adult children; and rediscovering a passion to engage with the global poor. Beyond these, we shared something else: a deep down tiredness, a soul weariness that descends upon us when the pace of life escalates.
While I leaned toward judging us both harshly for learning the lesson of balance so slowly, my friend saw it differently. “We live in a culture that believes faster is better. We’re married to men who are extraordinarily well-suited to doing life fast, and they’re incredibly productive because of that. Of course, it’s hard for us to maintain the pace that suits us in a culture—and in marriages—like ours. But we’re getting better!” And she’s right. For years I consistently tried to mimic Bill’s pace and ended up depressed and spiritually empty. Now, I only take an occasional slide into pace-related insanity. Each year I’m getting better at finding what musician’s call tempo giusto—the right speed. For Bill the right speed is an up-tempo allegro; I do better with a more relaxed adagio. My friend reminded me that despite a recent setback, I really am doing better. Allowing her to reframe my story gave me the hopeful energy to move back toward the slower life I need.
Thinking of Mother’s Day draws my attention to the many mothers I know—and the non-mothers, for that matter—for whom the best gift at any time of year would be someone willing to ask to hear their stories, listen with their souls, hear the words unspoken, and enter into a gentle process of reframing.
Whether your mother—or another significant woman in your life—sees herself with unusual clarity or desperately needs a fresh perspective, Mother’s Day is an ideal time to ask lovingly about the experiences that have shaped her. Your questions will honor her. They may also allow you to help her view her life with a kinder, more appreciative eye. That will be an invaluable Mother’s Day gift!
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