A Blog to My Daughters On Mother's Day
All their lives, my daughters have shared me.
Although I've tried to be there for homework questions, family dinners, concerts and school projects, in the public arena, huge pieces of me belong to someone else.
My time. My attention. My leadership
as a pastor's wife, a politician's wife,
as a worship leader for all their young years,
as a volunteer,
as a director of a summer music festival,
and although I've never been a working mother in the sense of a 9-5 job, I have felt the pull of all mothers, of wanting to be two places at once, of wanting to be a clone of myself,
of being totally available for my girls, my boys, when others have needed me.
Friday night I felt the tug strongly.
As the Entertainment Chair for Chandler's Relay for Life, I was responsible for the details surrounding entertainment groups, ceremony details and the themes of different laps as 1500 people walked the track at Basha High School to raise money for the American Cancer Society.
At different times, I looked up from my responsibilities to see my family walking the track, participating in the event. When the Tinkerbell tutu lap began, my girls tracked me down, tutus in hand, to make sure I joined them for part of a lap before my responsibilities claimed me again.
"Someone set a tent right where the singers need to go."
"Our teacher forgot the music in the band room. Is it OK if we start 15 minutes late?"
"Our director can't find parking. She promises she will be here soon."
"I sprained my foot. Can you get me a ride back to my car?"
"Where is the Locks of Love?"
"What do you mean Locks of Love cancelled?"
"Could Lynne Hartke please come to the main stage and let us know where teams can sign up for the scavenger hunt?"
"What are the rules for the 50 lap challenge?"
"I know you don't know me, but is it OK if I sing a song after this group is done?"
"Can I make an announcement?"
Most of Relay passed in a blur--with the exception of the luminaria ceremony -- a time for remembering those we have loved who have been diagnosed with cancer. In the midst of trying to find candles and holders for my team, I glanced around, and found myself surrounded by family --my husband, son-in-law, son, girlfriend and my two daughters--one with her head on my shoulder and the other holding my hand so tight,
so close, I smelled the flowers from the shampoo in her hair,
as we listened to words and music and raised our candles
to the kids' paternal grandparents, to my dad,
and to me, a cancer survivor,
Used by permission of Julie Melka photography
and I couldn't help but think of three years ago when I had to look my children in the eye and say, "I have cancer," which was difficult enough with my sons, but I can't explain how much more difficult to say to my daughters,
"It's breast cancer,"
knowing that they could never again check the "no" box when filling out medical forms, when asked the question, "Is there any family history of breast cancer?"
My girls were just 16 and 20, on the brink of their own journeys into young womanhood,
so although I was still surrounded by 1500 people, each with their own stories and pain and memories and hopes and dreams,
suddenly,
itwasjustus,
me with a daughter on each side and our family in a tight circle, my heart totally present to them.
Katelyn and Aleah -Thank you for sharing me with a big world but for holding my hand when it matters most and for drawing me home.
I love you. —Mom