Happy Birthday, Mom!

Today would have been my mom’s 84th birthday. I can’t believe it’s been almost seven years since she died unexpectedly in July 1999. I think about her almost every day, and almost every thought is accompanied by a sense of loss. I miss her.

Moms are like that. They worm their way into your heart and you can’t ever get rid of the feeling that you’re part of them and they’re part of you. Not everyone gets warm and fuzzy about their mom, but most of us do. It’s a one-of-a-kind relationship. Motherly love is so often unconditional and that sets it apart. That’s not to say moms don’t have expectations; they do. They simply tend to keep those expectations separated from their love. Their capacity to forgive is amazing.

Moms nurture us and that’s the purest form of love. Nurturing involves nourishing us; promoting our development; fostering our growth and well being on every level; educating us about the world around us. That’s an extension of the womb; an extension of birthing, of laboring and delivering into the world; a continuation of the giving of life.

My mom shared a birthday with Adolph Hitler, a fact her family never let her forget. We joked that some karmic force had mandated that all dictators be born on April 20th. She’d smile at that; but it was a bit of a tight-lipped smile. Mom ran a tight ship and employed a relatively short leash, which was probably necessary because my dad’s work frequently took him away from home. Even when he was in town he’d get home pretty late. While mom occasionally invoked the always popular “Wait until your dad gets home” threat, by and large, she ran the home.

When it became time for the obligatory rebellion against the restraints of home, my relationship with mom and dad experienced the usual strains. There was, however, an unusual element in that experience that clearly played a role in our relationship for 20 years. Mom didn’t like Mormons.

Her dislike was deep-seeded and sprang from her childhood. Her dad was born into the Mormon Church and had LDS ancestors that stretched back to the 1840s in Nauvoo, Illinois. One of her ancestors was a body guard for the Mormon prophet, Joseph Smith. After Smith was killed by a mob, those ancestors came across the plains in the Mormon migration to what would become the state of Utah. Several of their names are engraved on a pioneer memorial that marks the 1849 – 1850 Indian war associated with the settlement of Provo, Utah.

Mom’s dad wasn’t a devoted Mormon by any means. He took after his father, whom mom described as “a bit of a rounder”. Her dad married a Methodist from central Texas and that brought an immediate end to any hint of Mormonism in my mom’s immediate family. It also brought critical judgment from her extended family, the aunts, uncles and cousins who remained in the church. It also set mom apart from a large percentage of the people in her small eastern Arizona town, which had been settled by Mormon pioneers dispatched from Utah and had remained a Mormon stronghold over the years.

Mom told me, “I was never good enough for those people; nothing about my family and my life was right in their mind.” She never forgot that sense of estrangement and moral judgment; it colored her view of Latter-day Saints for the rest of her life. At times her antagonism would boil over, like when she yelled, “That damn church is out to get us!” after having a falling out with a Mormon bishop over a business matter.

Against this happy background I joined the LDS Church in 1968 at the age of 19. My “leaving home”, the natural act of becoming independent from my parents, took on an added dimension. I hadn’t just left home; I’d left home for the Mormon Church. Mom quickly assumed that her son would judge her the same way that all other Mormons, in her estimation, had judged her.

The defining moment of separation, which I will regret until the day I die, came on June 8, 1971, the day my first wife and I were married. As devoted Latter-day Saints we were determined to be married in an LDS temple. Non-Mormons, like my parents, aren’t allowed in any Mormon temple. Therefore, my mom and dad waited in an adjoining building while their oldest son got married. Photographs aren’t allowed, so they never saw so much as a picture of the event. They were gracious about it. But, now that I’m a parent, and as my daughter’s wedding approaches, I hate thinking about that day. A constant, usually unspoken, tension entered our relationship and stayed there for the next 20 years.

Mom smoked almost all of her adult life. Once in the early 80s she and dad came to visit my family in Salt Lake City. As mom entered our home our son greeted her at the door with a hug, a kiss and a pronouncement, “Grandma, you can’t smoke in our home.” My wife and I had long since decided that my mom could smoke in our home. Her visits were few and far between and we felt we could tolerate it for short stays. Our son’s pronouncement was his own initiative. After hearing it, mom’s next step was back out the front door. They checked into a nearby hotel. When I caught up with her, she finally, but very reluctantly, accepted that this young boy’s admonition hadn’t come from his parents. But that recognition brought forth a long and sharp lecture about what the Mormon Church was doing to my children and what impact it was having on our extended family. She let it all out that night.

When I left the Mormon Church in 1991-92, my relationship with mom changed almost overnight. It got better and better as time went along and I can say without hesitation that it was the best it had ever been at the time she died. I’m beyond grateful for that, but I also regret what might have been. We lost some good time during those 20 years. We let an impersonal institution get between us. Thank God for bringing us both back where we belonged.

Mom was adamant about people remembering her birthday. You could “miss” any other holiday or event, but you’d better not miss her birthday. All she required was a phone call or a card; gifts were appreciated but never expected.

Happy birthday, Mom! I love you.