One of my closest friends, Cathy, had an unusual childhood. Her mother abandoned her when she was an infant, and she was raised by their grandmother in Ligonier while her father stayed in Pittsburgh. Cathy and I have children of similar ages. Our friendship was formed around our children and we shared many amazingly fun, wonderfully chaotic, and meaningful times together. When our children were small, Cathy often joked about how low her parents set the bar for her. She was already better than her parents merely because she was present, she attended the childhood of her daughters.
I was very moved recently through an email exchange with a former neighbor who moved away. I was telling her about how I was looking forward to several upcoming work events. She wrote back and told me how excited she is to see me thriving at work and reminded me of all the hard work I did when we were neighbors as I pursued first a master’s degree and then a Ph.D. while raising three children. I was so touched that she had noticed and remembered the work I did when she lived across the street from me. Her willingness to see, remember, and share my joy was a way of attending that felt like love to me.
Now that I am a grandmother, I recognize that attending takes different forms. When I was a young mother, I had so many responsibilities tugging at me and asking me to attend. I felt busy and overworked and while I did my best to be completely and fully present for my children, I know I dropped one or two of the balls I was juggling at the time. Now my life is quieter. I have ample space and time for myself. I have projects and plans I hope to achieve, but this work feels like a bonus rather than a necessity. I have so much exterior and interior space that when I am present for my grandchildren, I am fully and completely there. I can attend in a deep, profound way.
This later season of life is emptier than the ones that preceded it. In the best of circumstances, it is not an emptiness that is sad or lonely but one of quiet, peaceful space that allows us to be so fully at home in ourselves that the hospitality we offer is warm and authentic. We move from striving to receiving and hopefully the quiet in our receiving can be felt by the ones we love and all who we encounter along the way. Attending is simple, yet it carries within it faith, generosity, and love.
In his book, The Return of the Prodigal Son, Henri Nouwen reflects on the ways he is like the younger son and the older son in the parable. A turning point came for him when someone he was discussing his writing with told him he was also called to become the father. One line from Nouwen’s writing about becoming the father made its way onto a notecard I keep on my desk. I changed the words from fatherhood to motherhood so it has more meaning for me.
Living out the spiritual motherhood requires the radical discipline of being home.
Henri Nouwen
Staying at home in ourselves alert, awake, attentive, is a discipline we learn over time. It requires intention and practice. It asks us to detach from filling the loud, noticeable demands of the world around us so that we might be present in small, deeply meaningful ways.
