A Litany
Last year, three weeks before my daughter was born, I wrote myself a benediction:
I’d like to issue a benediction, with whatever spiritual authority I have, to the mother I’m going to become. May the Lord bless and keep and make his face to shine: that goes without saying. May the peace which passes understanding fill every empty space. Shantih, shantih, shantih. May you allow love to consume you. May you mother yourself. May you accept pain. May you suspend your disbelief. May you play. May you run toward what is difficult. May you allow help. May you acknowledge defeat. Mother, may you unclench your jaw and let the mountain be the mountain and the skis be the skis. Mother, may you disregard anything I’m saying that no longer applies. All things are becoming new. May you gracefully accept the invitation to change.
Tomorrow, my daughter will be one year old. She has four teeth and is obsessed with taxidermy. She hugs, hits, throws, hums, and walks. I would easily die for her. I can’t believe she’s mine. But of course she isn’t mine.
I had an unexpected C-section. It wasn’t so bad. I had postpartum depression. It took me to the end of myself, but God’s grace was there too. Meadow had colic. Many of those first nights, my husband and I laughed hysterically, creating a life raft of inside jokes to keep us afloat while she screamed and screamed. The pandemic surged and re-surged and took the life of my steadfast, precious grandfather. War erupted in Ukraine, and now that I’m somebody’s mother I’ve found myself entangled with the suffering of all of God’s terrible children. And God–
God is what He always has been and always will be. But I have changed. I now understand what it means to be born again: the agony of it. The colic. The desire to go back to the dark and limited comfort of another world. Jesus is a person. Did you know? He’s a person who spoke in exhausting metaphors and abided the foolishness of his silly, inept apostles. He has a mother, a mother who wept for and with Him.
Lately I’ve been praying the Litany of Trust, hungering for call-and-response and the dull, childlike plea: Deliver me, Jesus.
A litany can be a communal prayer, or it can signify a “tedious recital or repetitive series.” I think you know the parallel I wish to make, that motherhood and family life are litanies themselves. We call, we respond, we repeat. Meadow shrieks in her crib; I don my slippers and trudge across the house. For 364 days we’ve been a family of three. It’s all been a litany, a clumsy and collaborative prayer, an offering of all our questions and our pride and our expectations.
Tomorrow, my daughter will be one year old, a milestone that will escape her consciousness entirely. This is her litany, for whenever she might need one.
A Litany for Meadow Brown
First response: Deliver me, Jesus
From the pain of a life with no center
Deliver me, Jesus
From the humanity and selfishness of my own parents
Deliver me, Jesus
From the shortcomings of material, language, and the body
Deliver me, Jesus
From fear, anxiety, and biting the inside of my lip
Deliver me, Jesus
From thwarted theologies and maladapted power
Deliver me, Jesus
From the woes of potty training
Deliver me, Jesus
From my mother’s well-intentioned, though embarrassing, poetry
Deliver me, Jesus
From the paralyzing childhood fear of exclusion
Deliver me, Jesus
From monsters and dark rooms and long division
Deliver me, Jesus
Second response: Jesus, I trust in You
That I am fearfully and wonderfully made
Jesus, I trust in You
That my mind, body, and spirit are gifts from heaven
Jesus, I trust in You
That my parents love me for me–for always, no matter what
Jesus, I trust in You
That your love is more just and merciful than I can comprehend
Jesus, I trust in You
That loving You means loving others
Jesus, I trust in You
That circumstances change, while Your goodness never does
Jesus, I trust in You
That performing for approval will never yield peace
Jesus, I trust in You
That whatever I want, I should hide it in Your heart
Jesus, I trust in You
