A Fragile Sort

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Mothers are, that is. We crack easily I think, at least I do. One hint of disaffection in my brood and I am cracked, like a tiny bird egg.

I mentioned that my children behaved badly on Sunday. They fought, two of them anyway -- the two oldest, closest in age. They fought on the way to Mass no less, sparks igniting the undisturbed air in the van.

If I speak in human and angelic tongues,
but do not have love,
I am a resounding gong or a clashing cymbal.

We picked up college boy on the way to church, and almost as soon as his bottom hit a seat in the van, the fighting started. You see, the pecking order was disrupted.

When the eldest child flies from the nest, the next eldest child becomes the eldest. He has gained position that he has never had. He has power, albeit very little. And when the eldest child assumes his role again, the temporary power is gone. He is, again, powerless. But not silent.

And so the fighting began and almost as soon, it ended, both parties silent, but wary. But damage done, mother weeps. Has she not taught them to love? Has she failed?

Love is patient, love is kind.
It is not jealous, it is not pompous,
It is not inflated, it is not rude,
it does not seek its own interests,
it is not quick-tempered, it does not brood over injury,
it does not rejoice over wrongdoing
but rejoices with the truth.

The funny thing about children, even grown children, is that they recover from the wounds and they forget. Mother does not forget. She holds those injuries tightly to her breast, like a wounded babe, and nurses it for a while, until she is sure it will be alright.


Yesterday, I heard Dr. Ray on the radio. He told a mother that her job was to provide a loving home. Beyond that, he said, there's nothing you can do. Small consolation that, but some comfort.


We take our children's actions so personally, as mothers. As though they reflect upon our ability to mother. What kind of mother raises her children to squabble amongst themselves?

It bears all things, believes all things,
hopes all things, endures all things.

Love never fails.

I know children squabble. The wrestle for power and approval. In some perverse way my children are seeking my approval, and that of their father, with their verbal jabs. They just don't know that those jabs pierce my heart.

I know that I fought with my own brothers when I was growing up, even probably into my college years. I know that I had a very sharp tongue.

When I was a child, I used to talk as a child,
think as a child, reason as a child;
when I became a man, I put aside childish things.

So, now I will pray that my own children will mature past the point of pecking order squabbles. They saw that their brawl troubled me greatly. Will they hold that to their breast and nurse it?

At present we see indistinctly, as in a mirror,
but then face to face.

Our sorrows purify us, as Our Blessed Mother's did. Each time our hearts are pierced by a sword, we become both weaker and stronger at the same moment.

So faith, hope, love remain, these three;
but the greatest of these is love.
1 Cor 12: 31 to 13:13

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