Love Is A Really Boring Verb

Mother's day was on Sunday. I prepped myself mentally and emotionally all week to go visit my mom. I hadn't seen her in a while, a combo of busyness, tiredness, avoidance and misplaced guilt. It just takes a lot to see her the way she is now, so it's been particularly difficult these days to drum up the desire and strength to go. But Sunday was a day to go if there ever was one. So I went to church, stopped by the mall bought her some shoes cause I figured she'd need them. Stopped again to pick up flowers and a card. Once I had essentially run out of reasons to stop, I took a deep breath and walked towards the retirement home.

I entered the building, took in all the weathered faces of people who have lived long enough to really teach me a few things, nodded hello, grabbed the stairs to the second floor and made a right towards my mom's room. I knocked on her door and waited for what felt like an eternity. Wrestling with my guilt in having waited so long since my last visit and my honest desire to be anywhere else. She finally made her way to the door and unlocked it. I push open the door, and sheepishly greet her with, "Hi mom. Sorry it's been so long."

"C'est pas grave." She replies with absolutely no malice, as she limps her way back to her chair. The TV is on as usual, some comedy dubbed in to French is playing. I think one of the main characters is on the cast of Criminal Minds now, but I digress.

I come in, put the flowers in the vase I bought her, ask her if she wants the shoes and get her to try them on. While she does that I grab the communication booklet and glance at the last month and a half of entries. No pen... Bathed her today... Refused Depends... Is in need of... Contact family about... Guilt, helplessness and sadness at my perceived failures and inability to do more, be better, do for her as much as she for me... They rest their grubby paws on my shoulder and press down. I look up at her and force a smile.¸

"Comment ça va? Tu te sens bien?"
"Mhmm" She nods.
"Est-ce qu'ils t'ont dit que tu dois demenager?" I ask her about her upcoming move, one she seems completely unaware of. My heart breaks. I catch a glimpse of her future, unstable, unsure, dependant on others in a way she's never had to be, even in her darkest days.

I catch her up on my brother. She asks about his kids. I tell her about Ayda's birth. How old is Claire? She's two and a half now.
"mmmm...." She acknowledges as if storing the information somewhere for safe keeping, We run out of things to discuss. That or she's tired of the conversation. Either way we sit in silence. She turns her attention back to the movie.

I sit and stew.

"Mom, I'm tired..." I try to explain. She looks at me, puzzled. I try and fail at expressing my current state of being. We sit in silence, and turn our attention to the television. We both laugh as this toddler outwits these thugs in suits in typical slapstick that is a signature of 90s films. She turns to me and utters some unintelligible words while scooping the air to her mouth. She wants me to stay for dinner. I concede. It's the least I can do.

We had dinner pretty much in silence except for the elderly ladies that say hi. My mom wordlessly points at me.

"Your daughter? Oh! How lovely."
"I'm friends with your mom you know."
"She's such a sweet lady."

I nod, smile, indulge the small talk.

We eat, clinking our wine glasses in a silent toast.
At the end of the meal I say goodbye, tell her I'll call her soon, and head home.

I cried at the bus stop. I cried tonight. I am crying now.

My phone died on that day so I didn't take the obligatory Mom's Day picture, not that I would have either way. Mother's day is nice and all, but if I am honest, I have not approached it with joy in a long time. Mother's day, like most holidays these days come with a burden I never look forward to. So as I jealously scrolled through my IG and Facebook later that night, I was reminded of how much I hate Mother's day, Christmas, Easter and the like.

They remind me of loss. They remind me my brokenness. They remind me of times I will never have back. Days like when mother's day meant breakfast in bed and laughter. But even in our less that perfect relationship God reminds me that love is not necessarily found in flowers, selfies, hashtags or lofty words, not that those things are bad, But love is in showing up, even when it hurts, Love is the heavy silences and painful sighs, Love is found in silent toasts, and awkward goodbyes, Love in is hours of reading tedious reports on perspective retirement homes.

Love is a verb. More often than not, a really boring verb. It's not often showy or always fun. It is present and it endures. When I feel less than equipped for it, I think of my mother and what her love looked like for Fletcher and I. Late nights, early mornings, going without, court battles, rejection, abandonment, ridicule, loss and heartache, tears and shame... All for our gain. All so I could sit here and have the option to live the life I am living.

Before I can get too whiny the Lord reminds me of what love looked like for Him. Relatively unknown for 30 years, only to have His time come and lead to His death. Rejection, abuse, abandonment, pain and betrayal. Those things were signs of His love. None of them Instagram worthy, all of them so valuable. The worth of His love for me is not diminished by the fact that it isn't pretty or marketable. On the contrary amplified in the fact that it brought no perceived glory on earth.

Yup.

And so I continue my journey of learning to love like my heroes. Heroes like my mom, and my Saviour, who's example I only wish I could carry. I learn to revel in sacrifice and bask in the mundane. Because those are the things that mark and last. After my cell phone dies, and hashtags become obsolete, those are the things that will stay behind.