The talented Ann Voskamp, a homeschooling mother of six, and author of a phenomenal book titled, One Thousand Gifts, also writes a blog called "a holy experience". I read this piece of hers, below, a year or two ago and it moved me deeply. I cannot read this without breaking into tears...every. single. time. It is perfect for Mother's Day. It makes me yearn for my own mom and it touches me as a mother myself. This Ann Voskamp KNOWS motherhood; what it gives, and what it takes from us.
I printed several of these and tied them up with a yellow ribbon and gave them to some of my friends who are mothers. For all of you who I cannot give a ribbon-tied copy to, here it is on my blog today for mother's day. I hope it brings you peace and contentment like it does me.
Houses may be bought, built, or borrowed.
But homes can only be made, and that with bits of ourselves.
Or so the ducks told me.
They told me without a sound, just simply as they preened and
nestled, a painting, oil on canvas. The children press in close too, for a
better look at Alexander Max Koester’s painting Ducks, and I read aloud the
caption below the brushes of color.
“Mother ducks pick feathers from their chests to line
their nests.”
(Koester’s painting: Moulting Ducks)
I pause and the children gaze thoughtfully at a clutch of plump
white, blizzard of feathers fallen down. But it’s those words that mesmerize
me: “pick feathers from their chests, to line their nests.” Eyes
fixed on a duck breast puffed, mother plunging beak in deep, I question
wondering self: “How else did you think nests were lined?”
With leftovers. With feathers discarded, the molted, the
not-so-necessary feathers. I thought mother ducks picked feathers up from what
was laying about, scraps, lining nests with what simply could be mustered after
the fact.
But no. (Is that only the way of human mothers?) No, a
mother duck plucks each feather out from the heart of her bosom, warm and soft.
She lines the nest with bits of herself. The best of her, from
the deep spots.
She cups her young in her sacrifice.
Children pull at the corner of the page, anxious to see the next
painting, and, reluctantly, I move on. But for weeks, part of me lives among
Koester’s ducks. (Koester, captivated, painted dozens of duck paintings
throughout the course of his life. I’ve come to understand.)
Days later, I am scrubbing out the arches of muffin tins after
breakfast, the clock ticking insufferably loud in my ears, time running down.
Children need books and learning, and I’m tuned for the expected chime of the
doorbell, a service personnel’s scheduled visit. And the words rise near to the
surface, “I don’t have time for this! No muffins tomorrow morning!”
Pluck.
The words sharply sink. And I, learning, line this nest with
a feather. Not a leftover. But one decidedly plucked. The service man meets
me with muffin tins still in the sink, and a circle of happy young. Whose
tummies next morning fill with another batch of muffins. I will make time.
As the sun’s perfect globe of glow sets nears the horizon, these
boys, glint in eyes, recalibrate vacuum cleaner to fire socks. Weary, I have
food to find, laundry awaiting escort, math sheets to mark.
They fire sock cannons.
And I Pluck.
Bellies jiggle, peals of giggles, as old mother chases after
future men, wrestling them down, tying them up in tickles. We warm here in
laughter. It feels good, wild and alive. So again they fire, and again I pluck
with feathers of my time, bits of me, and we pile high, one atop the other, nesting
down into sacrifice, soft and small.
Some feathers for this nest, the parts of me and time I have
sacrificed, have hurt, pain of the plucking lingering long. But why speak of
the details? And was it really sacrifice, or just this too-tender skin? It’s
done, it was necessary, it was for something better. Some nights, when all
sleep, I feel along the hidden bald patches.
There are times, too many, when they call, “Read me a story?”
“Wanna play a game with me?” “Can you come help me?”
And this mother refuses to pluck. Something, some task, someone
(me?), rates as more pressing, more important. I deem our nest
acceptable just as it is. I don’t want to sacrifice more of me.
Then comes the pecking, the scratching, the squawking. With
feather lining wearing thin, the nest chafes hard. We hurt and cry. Nests
need feathers deep.
Someone must pluck.
When will I learn that down sacrificed settles and soothes?
For scraps won’t suffice. Snippets of time, leftover me, a
trinket, a diversion, tossed.
Mother ducks don’t line nests with feathers, dirty and trampled,
the molted and unnecessary. Why would I? Nests need feathers fresh, warm
with mother’s life.
Night descends and calls children to dreams. I lead them to
their bed-gate, arms and legs under quilts worn from the ride. I read stories,
stroke hair, say prayers. Prayers to Him who plucked hard from His own
heart.
A sacrifice, staggering and true, for love of His very own. We
learn love from His laid down.
Tired heads nestle into pillows, pillows of down.
On feathers plucked, we rest.
The original Koester painting, “Moulting
Ducks,” is part of the collection at the Frye Art Museum in Seattle www.fryemuseum.org