Joy in Thin Spaces
The mom in the mirror as these men towered over me.
It’s early morning and the full house is very quiet. I’ve found a leftover banana muffin in the fridge and the kettle is on, so I can brew tea, as I think we used the last coffee filter in yesterday’s pot. The stillness offers choices that won’t be available to me later today, and as the tea steeps I ponder what will hold my soul in this space: a reflective book? The feel of a pen in a journal? The Christmas shopping that is up on the computer? Yes, I’m even contemplating finishing the dishes in the kitchen, so a job is that much easier when the family descends. But I think I’ll write about yesterday and see what my fingers discover.
The whole Yellow House is in Portland for a cousin’s wedding. As the grands’ houses that once held the large gathering have shrunk to the size of a retirement home, our family of seven is a logistical commitment. We’ve found ourselves an Air B&B and have snuggled in, the accumulation of all of us under one roof the delight now—being with the extended family is the excuse for our immediate family to be together these days.
The upstairs is compact. There are plenty of bedrooms and beds, but the in-between space hosts a full-length mirror and the perfect acoustics to bounce the conversations into all the rooms, whether the doors are open or closed. There has been plenty of, “We can hear that, you know?” as snark travels between the siblings or there is a make out session when Eric claps the pearls at the back of my neck. We can pop our heads out to seek advice around added layers to formal attire’s scarcity, or marvel at the hair that has been tucked into loops as a cascading rainbow. I found myself next to my boys, the mom in the mirror as these men towered over me. We paused in the moment to see our younger selves dancing amid our present reflections.
The wedding was family—a cross section of life. The bride and groom, of course brought with them the interaction of their parent’s families, so our little family was the bride’s, father’s, mother’s extended relations. But we were all there. Grandmas, aunts, uncles, and cousins twice removed. This is the family I married into, and I feel as comfortable with them as I do my family of birth. We’ve had babies together, raised children together, buried loved ones together, walked illnesses, celebrated successes, sat in fear and said, “It will be well,” and clung to the others belief. Some live at home, some live on their own. Some still cling deeply to church, some have walked away. Some are straight, some are not. Some are married; some are purposefully single. Some live on farms, some live in the city. Some wear sweatpants and some know how to make elegance comfortable. Some are 80, some haven’t left their second decade. It can be tempting to try and find a mold that we should all fit into, but the glorious diversity opens possibilities, and the matriarchs of the family, those who hold the status of living eighty years, have modeled how to love differences.
There is always room on a father’s chest for his girl.
The wedding was traditional. The bride glowed. The groomsmen clapped shoulders. The speeches were heartfelt. But time has shifted this ritual in me. I didn’t watch the groom’s face as my niece came down the aisle. I didn’t ogle her dress or look for the love in her eyes. I watched my husband’s cousin walk his daughter down the aisle. The father of the bride, who was so proud of the young woman on his arm and was so undone by the closing of an era. He radiated such love for his girl, and I felt the relinquishing of a relationship as he purposefully stepped back to let it transform into something new.
I found him in quiet spaces throughout the day, his unflappable self reflecting on the reality of the day as fathers have done for generations; but it was our family’s turn now, and this truth lands in unexpected places when it’s you. We looked at the dessert table, where their people had showed up with sugar. Desserts of all shapes and sizes, ready to accommodate all food preferences and needs, proclaimed the community that supported the bride and groom, the village their parents had cultivated in their 27 years of marriage. He thought about his own wedding day and how his mother’s community gathered in ways his 21-year-old self had no knowledge of at that time, but his present self could see how it mattered and see a similar group of people who would support his girl now. The community net of love is vast.
He led his girl out on to the dance floor and she tucked herself into her father’s chest as the mother’s sat together across the room. On this day 26 years ago, I gave birth to my second daughter, and there is a picture I have of her, minutes old, blood still on her head, wrapped up in a blanket, tucked into her father’s chest, dancing. There is always room on a father’s chest for his girl.
As the dance floor opened up, fathers and daughters, or mothers and sons, were invited to join in making memories. Eric took the girls out, and then my boys took me out. I haven’t danced with them since they were littles. One towered over me, and we reflected on the wedding, rejoicing in the delight of the cousin and the life she is stepping into. The other made sure he looked me in the eye and said, “Thank you for being my mother. You did such a good job,” before he broke the dancing rhythm and pulled me into a bear hug.
Weddings are thin spaces where past and present cast shadows into the future. My oldest was the flower girl at the wedding of the parents of the bride. My second born was weeks old. We even didn’t know we’d have two more. Our family looks so very different than it did then. Lots has shifted. Lots didn’t follow the prescribed path that the pastor called out for us. Instead, we found a path that was ours, that said, “I see you and honor you.” Each of our kids, each of the cousins, are finding the path that calls them into being, and we get to witness one another, witness the goodness of the path we are on, witness the pain along the way and say, “We’re here, we are journeying with you as truth lands in unexpected places.”
Our younger selves can dance amid our present reflections.
I know that our dessert table will always be full, because we are a village made up of family and those who love us. I know there will be room on a father’s chest for his children to lean on. And I hope that we will always be willing to let compact acoustics bounce our conversations through doors, so our younger selves can dance amid our present reflections.
And these thoughts hold my soul for the day.
#JoyAsResistance