To Sally, the Valiant (and Beloved)

Dear Mom, We just don't seem able to manage a Mother's Day together, do we? Well. In your absence and decidedly in your honor, I have a story to tell. Perhaps you'll think it an odd one for a tribute to your motherhood. A workaday tale it may be, but in my mind it is a bright, unfading gem. For what you gave me one Texas morning almost twenty years ago remains a grace that forms the bedrock of my heart. Memories don't get much better than that, odd or not. Here goes.

I stood with munchkin nose pressed hard against the back door glass. Outside, the skies tumbled and fought, the rain fell in torrents for the fifth day, and the roar of newborn creeks called me even through the panes. Behind me, you gathered books and pencils for a morning of school work, switching on the lamps to battle the outdoor gloom. But even as you did, the boys slipped beside me, glued their noses to the window too and when you called we turned three small, grieved faces away from a world that seemed tailor made for splashing and exploration.

"Aww Mom," we groaned, timid but yearning for that alluring realm beyond, "can't we just go outside and explore today?"

I still remember my startlement at your "yes." The way you were silent for a second, took a deep breath, pushed the books aside, and put your hands on your hips.

"Old shoes and old clothes on before you go," you ordered and we hastened for our gear, grabbing boots and jackets, hearts pattering in elation at this wholly unexpected day. We were back in two minutes, and behold, so were you. A tiny jolt touched my heart at sight of you decked in scuffed shoes and old jeans, intent upon joining our expedition. I hadn't expected that; the Queen would lead the adventure, a queen who would also wash the several loads of muddy clothes resulting, mop up our bootprints on the kitchen floor, and defend our bedraggled state to my grandmother when we returned. But I was too little to know all of that. All I knew was that your presence hallowed the adventure. And ah, there was so much we longed to show you.

Out we tromped into a world all a-whisper, the air tingling with rain, the sky swift and changeful as the rivulets below. In an ecstasy of abandon we jumped in every puddle to be had within the first ten feet, twirled and whooped and ran all out, limbs loose and swinging, to the pasture gate that led to the flooded tank. There the real drama awaited, a real flood down by the giant oak, now up to his waist in new-made rivers.

"Come on Mom!" we screeched above the roar of the water, picking our way through the mud of the old cattle-trails, ducking beneath cedar branches and wintered vines. You came. Smiling, eyebrows arched in interest at every fossil we pointed out, every yell of false-alarm when a branch turned out not to be a snake. You came right into the streams, splashed us with the cold, swift water, and when we eyed the swiftest torrent with daring, hungry eyes, you nodded your permission. In we went, right up to our short little waists, fighting against the current in an overjoyed grapple with the one joyous fact of the water.

I remember that for one instant I looked back at you. Already in the current, I turned and sought your face. I was a little in awe that you would let us dare the flood. I was proud that you were there to see us do it. And if I was also a little afraid of the torrent, well, I had you at my back. You caught my eye. And to this day I cannot forget the glint of fun that blazed in your glance. Then the slight nod of reassurance that told me I would never be out of your sight. Then the smile, like a whisper between those who know the great camaraderie of adventure. I laughed. And dove straight in.

And that Mom, is one of the clarion moments for which I will thank you all my days.

For in that instant you gave me your own heroic view of life. I know now that courage was always your mark. You were a dreamer; lover of the underdog, a missionary in communist Poland, a writer, a teacher, daring in faith and fierce in friendship. And even when three squirmy children invaded your life, you kept that courage strong. You brought it right into your motherhood and determined that we should learn it too. That rainy day adventure was a lesson in valor, in gladness, in dreams. You wanted your children to taste the haunting grace of the world, so you freed us to heed the cry of the rain. You knew that danger is always close, so you came too. You knew that life is full of risk, so when we met the dare of the water, you let us hope, and reach, and try, and you taught us the boldness with which this thing called life must be met.

Only now, grown up as I am with the demons of oughts and shoulds ever breathing down my neck do I understand the import of the choice you made that morning. You could have said no. You could have resolutely shut that door, glared down our yearning little hearts, rebuked our impractical imaginations. You could have insisted on an ordinary day and a checklist of chores. But you saw that our hearts were ripe for the forming. You saw that holy hunger for far horizons, you saw our need to try, to dare, to reach for something just beyond our grasp. So you opened the door. Be bold, said your eyes, be joyous. Be brave with my blessing.

But you also gave us yourself. Your presence was the strength at our back, your laughter the song that sent us leaping through the rain. You stood there on the creek bank, eagle-eyed, cheerful, strong, and the sight of you glimpsed through the splash and rain sent a courage like blood pulsing through our veins. We tried all the harder because you were there. We dared because we knew you would await us at the end. And when we tromped home, gloriously wet and utterly exhausted, it was you who sat us by the fire, brewed the cocoa, and lingered with us in the flickering light. Your interest made us heroes. We told of the current that nearly got us, the branch that nearly broke, the newest fossil found, and it was your admiring words that turned us into knights at battle's end, triumphant and ready to fight again.

To know that life is a great quest is one thing. To be given the love to meet it is another altogether. You, my precious mother, gave us both.

Courage in living and love that does not fail -  these themes defined my childhood. That one bright day was a note in a larger song. When life was dark, you lit candles. When times were grim, you made a feast (even if it was only homemade bread and cheese). When the battle I faced was doubt of God, you looked me in the eye and said "He's bigger than your doubts." But then you took my hand; "don't worry, I'll have faith for you until yours lives again." When sickness came, when friendships failed, you challenged me to write, to love, to hope with every fibre of my being. When Oxford seemed a dream beyond all grasping, you said "just try." And when once there, I thought for sure my essays would be flops, you ordered me to take a good long walk, drink tea, and "give it one more go."

Meet the battle and face it with a song. Light a candle and lay a feast in the very teeth of darkness. Dare, always, to try once more. To love again. That's what you taught me.

So here's to you beloved and valiant mother o' my heart. You make me think of Tennyson's line in Ulysses, "we are, one equal temper of heroic hearts." To have shared your heart and learned your courage is a gift that will follow me all my days. I hope I learn to be as brave as you.

Happy Mother's Day.

Love,

Sarah

 

Vienna, My Love

A year ago today, I was walking the Naschmarkt in Vienna. I met my mom downtown today for a stroll after a morning of work, and as we walked and hunted for the first (late) daffodils, she reminded me of our Vienna jaunt. The mere thought of it was like breathing new air, basking in a fresher light. Vienna, my love.

There is a special grace that comes to me in that city. I don't know if its because of my family's history there, or if it really is a grace specific to that city with its particular story, its music, its honey-toned buildings and copper-roofed palaces with the cobbles and the pigeons and geraniums in all the windows. Whatever the cause, it freshens and revives me just to think of it. So, though I am on a writing deadline and really wasn't going to post today, at least I can share a bit of Vienna with you. The post below is a repost from a visit a couple of years ago. Vienna is one of those places that, even when I leave it, in my heart I am always on my way back...

:: reposted :: Never before have I known it so fully. Vienna is part of my history, yes. My first conscious memories claim Vienna as their home. The images from that time march through my imagination in all the splendor, and blur, of an Impressionist painting. I recall flocks of pigeons in the cobblestone squares, a park with giant blocks that made a fantastic playground, a tiny door next to our fireplace, a statue of mother and child, an ice cream shop (gelato I'm sure) I visited with my dad, perched on his shoulders. We moved away when I was three, but those images were the first whose beauty formed my memory.

I did not return to Vienna until I was fifteen. Then I came on trip with my mother, a journey in which she introduced me to the Europe that had captured her heart and soul when she was a young woman. Together we savored, we wandered, and wondered as we went. My early life came alive to me there through her stories. Again, I came to Vienna when I was sixteen and spent part of the summer with Gwen, a friend as good as family. The city began to be mine then, at least in part. I spent whole days alone wandering the cobbles and back alleys, learning the "strasses" and "gasses" that twisted through parks and under the brows of buildings older than anything I could remember. It was almost mine, but I wasn't yet old enough to understand the way the city formed my story.

Until now. I have come  full circle. This time, I know the city as my own. This lovely place comes to me as a presence that has lingered in the background of my being all my life. Vienna, I realize, is mother to much of what I love. As I walk the cobbles in company with the grey sky and quiet houses this time, I feel a sense of homecoming. Finally, I am beginning to understand how deeply Austria shaped the values of my parents when they were young, newly married, with their babies just beginning to tumble into the world. What they tasted and heard, walked and saw in these streets changed the way they raised us.

Vienna is a city mighty in beauty. The very streets, the rhythm of the days here reflect a philosophy of life that holds loveliness to be necessary as bread. Music to be dear as water, celebration to be precious as fresh, clean air. I noticed this time, the way candlelight glimmers in so many windows at dusk. The way that music fills the streets at night, violinists on the corners, the latest opera broadcast on an outdoor screen so that the late walkers downtown make their way through shadows that seem made of music. Geraniums gild the windows. Cafes guard the cobble street corners, serving very strong coffee in very small cups. One may sit for many hours, stare, and think.

Vienna is a place of creation. An atmosphere of excellence pervades the city, for it is a refuge for those who study, who delve, who make, and sing. Music is made here, books are written, philosophy taught, worship given. My parents have told me that it was the people they met here, friends who discussed and read, thought hard and deep, who held themselves unceasingly to the task of learning that modeled to my parents what an education ought to be. The spiritual pace thrums swiftly here, new thoughts are born, or fresh things created, painted, sung. Vienna is a city whose palaces and courts have sheltered the making of much that has enriched the world. Everywhere I walk, I am confronted with artistry. The careful creation of forgotten hands reaches out to me from the statues, the doorposts, the solemn churches.

But the city itself, a sprawling, golden maze is a gift simply in itself. The mornings here are my favorite, for then I get to walk with the dawn, alone, exultant. I stride long in the cold, sweet stream of the early wind. Stone streets, dark, then gold, under my feet, each narrow alley lifting a slender, enigmatic face. The sky is close somehow, a rivulet of cloud and blue in a ripple between the creamy walls of the houses, the leaping, giant heads of the copper-domed churches. There are a hundred alleys down which I could duck, a thousand streets tossed before me like the shimmer and snake of "a gypsy's ribbon." Stone arches beyond which curve, now a flagged alley lined by dark-eyed windows, then an archway of tawny bricks trickling up to a polished wooden door flanked by wild curtains of ivy, then the Hoffburg filling the sky from cobble to sun, walls the color of butter, with the fierce, sea green helmet of his roof.

Vienna, I find, requires of me, and required of my parents, a love for what is lovely. Vienna taught them the power of beauty to form the soul to love what is true and good, and they, in turn, taught it to me. Even as a child, Vienna helped me to understand that what is beautiful has a power beyond the merely material. Beauty, I understood, speaks eloquently of the world and the value of the people who fill it. Beauty requires excellence from those who would create it, forms the very inner minds of those who set themselves to seek it. Vienna is an eloquent place. It's loveliness calms, its rhythms root one in grace. Perhaps it is a particularly powerful atmosphere for me because of the story my family has lived within it. Each person has a place or two of their own that calls them into life.

But Vienna is one of mine, a place that grounds me, reminds me of my story and what I have been given, and of all that I must now work to become. I am deeply thankful that my parents glimpsed loveliness here when they were young and decided to bring this particular brand of life into our home. I'm thankful to be prodded into new creation by the sight of old beauties that have lasted. Whatever your own place of life, I hope this glimpse of Vienna returns you to it in thought, or brings a fresh beauty of its own.

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