I saw her. I saw me and the space of separation between us was closing in. The pastoral work of “being mom” was happening.
The church service ended and I rushed to the parking lot in a desperate quest to reach the safety of solitude before I burst. Once home, I watched my favorite comfort movie (You’ve Got Mail), took a self-pity power nap, anger-baked two dozen strawberry basil cupcakes, wept until my nasal cavity buzzed from the strain, wrapped a quilt around myself when I couldn’t find my coat and walked around the block in the crisp November air, and finally emailed a friend to confess I was feeling a bit “topsy-turvy.”
My father died in 1994. The day of his funeral was significant for me. Not because of my loss, but because that was the day my sisters confronted the remaining men in our family, my two brothers and me. We had gathered for a meal after the service and social time with friends and extended family. When the meal was finished and the second cups of coffee were poured, the brothers got up from the table and began to make our way to the living room as the men usually did after a family meal.
My sisters, not my blood sisters (I don't have any of those), but my soul sisters and I visited an art museum together last spring. When I'm around these two beautiful women, I feel heard. I feel known. There is no pretense and no anxiety. These two women possess the kind of deep soul beauty that comes from years of belonging to Christ.
