for all who long for a mother
Light filters through stained glass—scenes from Jesus’ life pooling in color at our feet. The altar’s gold gleams as if alive. A trace of incense lingers in the air.
We sit on Mary’s side of the sanctuary, beneath Our Mother’s statue—hands outstretched in quiet welcome. Candles flicker in red glass votive holders.
My husband leans close and softly says,
“She heals me.”
Father Tom is away on a mission. The visiting priest—a small man with elegant hands—preaches with unexpected fire, his voice insistent: repent, remember our privilege.
The ancient liturgy flows over me, like water poured by loving hands.
I know I am loved. I know, too, I am not worthy.
Lord, I am not worthy to receive You;
but only say the word, and I shall be healed.
The bread and wine mingle in my mouth, the body and blood of Christ.
There is no forgiveness without the shedding of blood.
And no child is born without it.
The blood of mothers—offered without altar.
A different kind of sacrifice.
We sing a Lenten song—Lord, hold us in your mercy.
Hold us in your mercy
Mercy is made flesh among us
Hold us in your mercy
Lord of all the homeless pilgrims
Hold us in your mercy
Sent to bring the poor good news
Hold us in your mercy
You who shared the sinner’s table
Hold us in your mercy
The words linger as we pass by Mary. Her hands are still lovingly outstretched, her head bowed—in deference, in humility, in invitation. I cannot say.
I light a candle:
for the motherless children,
for the childless mothers,
for all who long for a Mother.
held in both hands
In adoption, we inhabit many roles and loyalties, navigating competing interests and unresolved tensions. There are two sets of parents, two families—but only one child. And so often, the adopted person feels they cannot be whole, even when relationships with both families are present. Much that is deeply held remains difficult to reconcile.
I’m reminded of a verse in Ecclesiastes: It is good to grasp one thing and not let go of the other, but—we only have two hands.
To live with this dilemma, a good parent raises an aware child. A good parent says, “There is this, and there is also this. Look here; see one thing. Now look here; see the other.” As the child grows, the parent offers more: this, and then that, and then another—until the child begins to see a vast universe of possibilities. A still vaster array of human beings, each genetically unique, each impossibly wonderful, lovable, beloved.
That child becomes an adult who can choose—not because every choice is given, but because they have learned how to discern. In learning to see many things, they come to know that not all things can be held at once. Some choices exclude others. Some must be made alone. Perhaps only one choice is possible at a time—or two. Five might expand the soul. But all cannot be held at once by one person.
This is the way of adoption.
In one hand, we hold the necessity of respect for the ancestors, among whom birth parents stand—those whose children were given up, or taken. Whatever their sins of omission or commission, we teach respect, honor, and approbation for all whose blood and lives form the foundation of our presence in the world.
In the other hand, we hold the wounded soul of the orphan. That person, too, is worthy of reverence. They have the right to choose relationship—or not. To seek healing. To stand on their own feet. To do what it takes to become whole, even at the expense of birth or adoptive parents. The adopted person has that right.
And then I wonder: with our two hands full, is there room for the adoptive parent?
Must we put down the birth parent, or the adopted person, in order to lift up the adoptive parent? If we honor the claims or love of the adoptive parent, must we abandon that of the birth parent—or the adopted person?
In human terms, it is a conundrum.
love is big enough
The incense of an African-American spiritual rises in my mind:
He’s got the whole world in His hands,
African-American spiritual
He’s got the whole world in His hands,
He’s got the whole world in His hands,
He’s got the whole world in His hands.
Lord, hold us in your mercy.
When I rise from my knees, I know: Love is big enough to hold us all. The two-handed Either-Or is transformed—through love and wisdom—into the welcome of Either–And–Or.
The candle sputters as I light it, flickering a little in the red glass. I drop a coin into the box to pay for more candles. God knows I’ll need them, as I pray week after week for all who need the gentling of a Mother.
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