Journey to a Mother's Heart chap 2

Mom served liver that night. The only thing worse would have been liver with spinach or maybe the soggy Brussel sprouts of the seventies. Before I could go to see my first movie at the cinema, I had to eat my slice of liver. I had to make a happy plate. My sisters stood around the table, cheering me to take one more bite. The four-year-old heart inside felt indignant at this trickery. How could my mother put such high stakes on something I desired? Whether a compromise was made, or someone felt sorry for me and ate the last two bites, my memory doesn’t tell, but I clearly remember stepping into the lobby of that two-story theater with the big red velvet curtain that encased the big screen. Everything was larger than life.

Sitting in a balcony seat, waiting for the curtains to open, hoping my suffering would be worthwhile, I had no idea how impactful the next couple of hours would be. The opening panoramic views of the alps took my breath and me to a place completely foreign and beautiful. Maria came running out over the mountain tops singing her song of freedom and passion for life. She enchanted the Von Trapp children with Do Re Me and I became her instant ward, wishing myself far far away with a handsome captain to call my own. That night, I professed to my mother when I grew up, I wanted to get married in a cathedral just like Maria. My mother, never one to tell me a lie, calmly replied that she didn’t think that would happen.

“Why?” Simply put "those cathedrals were over in Europe, and I would have to marry a Catholic, and that was not likely being that we were Protestant." My mother believed her answer sufficient, but I tucked those words near the memory of the liver and continued to dream and sing.

Every Christmas the Sound of Music aired on television with the yodeling goat herd and whistle blowing Ralph. Each closeup of Maria falling in love made my heart wish even more to travel and feel the romance of the mountains and movie magic. As life would have it, I did travel overseas, I did meet my handsome captain, and I did have a wedding in a cathedral right in the heart of the most romantic city in the world – Prague.

This means I did marry a Catholic, but as a good Protestant I said my vows hidden under the I dos, which included I would not become Catholic, and I would not raise my children Catholic. Being conducted in another language, I could technically feign ignorance as to what precisely we had agreed upon. I resented an institution telling me my beliefs were not enough…that somehow, I was not enough.

On Sundays, my husband would drop me off with first one child, then two children, and finally three children. He would go to his church and then we went home. My pride found my family sitting in different pews in different churches. Deep inside I knew one of us had to give in, but why did it have to be me?

Adopting Mary as my mother figure became a mountainous stronghold in my spiritual journey. I had a mother. She fed me liver, remember? She was a good mother and like all moms, she had built a world inside of me where my values and morals, knit together by memories, created the beliefs I lived by. Mary’s presence, however, teased me from afar. My questions didn’t seem to threaten anyone but me. I needed to find a solution. I tired of having one foot firmly planted as a Protestant while a toe explored the waters of Catholicism.

In the Bible, Mary is characterized as pondering many things in her heart. This expression seemed the way to understand her. Unlike Eve, Mary didn’t act on her doubts. She tucked the lessons she learned into a place I had tucked the liver scene and life’s other disappointments. Mary’s heart appeared full of goodness, mine held tainted resentments. She sought wisdom and grew accordingly in grace, where I had only sought recognition of my sufferings. She became the ideal mother, and her perfection only shrouded my inadequacies in shame.

As life continued to press down on my shoulders, people affirmed me as a good mother. People recognized I had great kids, and I do. The acknowledgment of others bolstered my belief that being a good mother meant being successfully in control of well-behaved children. Mary, however, as good as she was, raised a rebel. Her controversial son must have been the cause for speculative gossip at the well when women saw her.

When I began to consider more of Mary’s character, I recognized the pangs her heart experienced when her son received societal rejection. I felt each sting I saw my own children navigate. I knew I wanted playground justice when one of my own was hurt at the neglect of another classmate. I cannot fathom how Mary managed. Mary’s son, Jesus, created change. His radical ideas challenged the traditions of men. They loved Him when He healed them and despised Him when He revealed them. Mary must not have heard only positive recognition of herself as a mother if her son was such a strong figure of transformation. Yet Mary pondered.

Each accolade that I received gave me a false sense of my goodness. A strengthened sense of success. I continued to excel outwardly, hoping and praying no one would be the wiser of the lacking I found inside. Secretly, I knew I had been measured, I had been weighed, and I had definitely been found wanting. But secrets have a way of finding the fissures in our armor. Secrets desire to be shared. Secrets live to be free.