…the stigmata are not, after all, just reserved for a few rare mystics.
~Caryll Houselander, Wood of the Cradle, Wood of the Cross
We had been planning for well over ten months. The day was looming larger than ever, and my to-do list was at least a mile long. One day at a time, I told myself, stick to the script of the every day. Execute the plan and breathe. It will all be beautiful.
Mother of the bride, in the throes of wedding week, nursing a persistent migraine and willing myself not to forget any of the million minute details I had written down in eight different places, I was at the ironing board smoothing out the wrinkles of the youngest son’s button-down shirt. I had decided to start there. Ironing has never been particularly calming for me, and yet it was really the only chore that could be done six days in advance. Accomplishing anything at this point was considered a win.
Suddenly, disaster struck. Distracted by the entrance of one of my younger daughters, I stepped on the cord and sent the iron itself tumbling off the board headed for my foot. Instinctively I went to grab it, but realizing what a horrible idea that was, I instead used my left forearm to knock it away and was able to avoid sure catastrophe. Success! Or so I thought, until I looked at my forearm. Two inches long, one-quarter inch wide, was a burn that made it look like I had been branded. Never mind that in six days I would be wearing a sleeveless dress and gold bracelets. Never mind that the resulting wedding photos would be prominently displayed for just about forever—I was in serious pain. Of course, I couldn’t dwell on it for even a moment, since my daughter had other “pressing” emergencies for me to address. (Get it? Pressing? smirk)
Fast forward to a few days later. The bridal party was beginning to arrive, and I found myself hurriedly making breakfast for a few early morning risers. Bacon, eggs, bagels—I was like a hurricane in that kitchen—trying to get it all done in record time. Until I felt the bread knife slicing into the palm of my left hand. Yanking the bagel away, I grabbed a paper towel and cradled it in the skin between my thumb and first finger, not daring to look. I quickly finished serving breakfast and headed out to the reception venue, still cradling the paper towel. I hadn’t pulled it back, and I didn’t plan to any time soon. There was a ton of work to be done with no time to even ponder if my new accoutrement required stitches.
At the reception venue, gloves on, I oscillated between arranging charcuterie boards and checking in with my daughter and her bridesmaids who were putting the finishing touches on the dining room decor. At one point, I found myself with a hot glue gun in my hand, adding pine branches and pine cones to the wooden seating chart my husband had made. Of course, I burned myself on the hot glue. Different hand this time, just to even things out on the injury front. (grin)
If there is any lesson to be learned here, it is this: that a mother’s hands are the stigmata of love in our lives. We work ourselves, and our hands, raw. But it is all for love— for our children and the gift their lives are to us. We couldn’t imagine life without them. Without this pouring out of ourselves, our lives would have little meaning, no force, no purpose. We are so blessed and honored to be this force, to lay it all down in wild abandon for them. This is sacred ground, and we count ourselves abundant in favor to be walking it. Our love encompasses every person we come into contact with, and we stretch our arms wide, like Christ on the cross. Sometimes this love pierces us through, as the nails of the crucifixion hold him fast. And, let’s be clear, we want this piercing, we always will. It is a joy-filled sacrifice borne daily in cherishing our kids and these moments, fully and completely. Our love and sacrifice holds our family and our children in ways unseen.
It holds us as well, these wounds of love. Our own personal stigmata.
I like to work with my hands. I’m constantly fixing, pushing, pulling, carrying, holding, etc…. and consider my hands to be an instrument of love in my vocation. As a single mother, I often feel there are not enough of my hands to go around. This writing helped me meditate on the gift of my service through the work of my hands and it inspired a spirit of thanksgiving. Thank you for this lovely reflection.