Mother of the Bride

It doesn’t seem like the girl before me - this blonde wonder with the perfect dress draped perfectly on her figure, finger adorned with an engagement ring given by her dream man and a smile that doesn’t need the formality of words - is my child.  

My child, this first born adventurer, should not be this age.  The days slipped into years that now present us with a new phase in her life and ultimately mine as well: Mother of the Bride.

I knew this day would come intellectually.  I raised an independent girl to love God way more than a boy.  And she took my advice.  She has grown into an independent, young woman who loves God way more than her boy … and because she does they will have a beautiful life.  

To be the Mother of the Bride means certain life transitions have taken place and ends of seasons walked through have had to pass for me to be a Mother of the Bride.  That means the years that I was a Bride are farther away than I thought.  And I’m reminded that time slips easily through fingers.

This child, now a beautiful, strong, confident and powerful woman, is the same little girl I kissed goodnight and tucked into cotton sheets and aged quilts and whispered in her porcelain ear to have sweet dreams.  Whatever fancy things she dreamed up in that pretty little heard of hers came true.  Her knight in shining armor and her perfect white dress and a bright future all belong to her.  But it happened in pieces and parts that slipped too quickly.

As I watch her squeal over her dress, it doesn’t seem that long ago that I was the one doing the squealing.  As I watch her stare at her ring on her finger, it doesn’t seem that long ago that I was the one staring at a ring given to me by my sweet man.  And then I see her look at her man in the way that I looked at her Dad: eager, excited, unaware but steady about a future life together, and I melt.

I know that I am echoing fresh words of an all too familiar sentiment from Mother’s everywhere - these Mothers of the Bride.  But this time is different.  It’s my turn.  It’s my transition.  It’s my emotions and my feelings and my experience.  I am being christened into a club that welcomes their members with soft touches, fresh kleenex and understanding glances.  We are the mothers who watched their girls turn into Brides.

This christening is fraught with complex feelings that need to be tended to and watched over carefully when grappling with this concept of being Mother of the Bride.  

First, the feelings of understanding that I now wish I could impart to my own Mother.  I want to shout from the highest hill:  “Now I know what you were going through!”  I have a feeling this mother of mine, who resides in eternity, knows.  She isn’t here to physically tell me I’m going to get through this or take me out for coffee and tell me it’s hard letting go or go shopping for the ritual Mother of the Bride dress.  I have replacements that can do that.  But there’s something in me that wants to vocalize so many things to her.  

Things like this becoming of the Mother of the Bride is just another circular cycle of life that gets handed down from Mother to Daughter.  Mother goes through the experience before the daughter has a frame of reference to understand each nuance of the season in which she finds herself confronted.  Mother sails alone in the company of other Mother’s.  Daughters find out later what the tear was for when she walked herself into Kindergarten or the standing ovation at her first piano recital or the silent cries that accompanied prayers that fought for her or the pride felt as a tassel was moved.  

Mothers face these seasons alone, with their feelings.  And if we are blessed, we get to untuck them for a later date.  A date that may bring us physically able to tell them they are going to get through this or take them out for coffee and tell them it’s hard letting go or go shopping with them for their ritual Mother of the Bride dress.  I pray God is kind enough to let me navigate these uncharted waters for my daughter thus making a full circle complete.

Second, the wrappling with the fact that my Bride years are farther away than I thought.  It really has been thirty years since I put on that perfect white dress and walked down the aisle to meet a man who has more than kept his promises made on our wedding day.

My father once said that although decades precede his name for the number of years he has lived on the planet, he doesn’t feel much older than when he was a young man.  I get it.  When did a number ever match the feelings inside a soul?  My number reality doesn't match the internal application of years passed.  

Time has slipped quickly, yet to count them too quickly cheapens the intention of the past from God’s perspective.  He told us to number our days.  He said that time fades like grass.  I think the passing of time is only appreciated and realized in the looking back.  

These are the requirements to transition to become Mother of the Bride.  Of course, these requirements that I observe and want to hurdle over like a light footed gazelle aren’t universal … but they are mine. There’s an internal voice that softly urges me to push forward, embrace the unfamiliar, mourn over the passing of time yet not neglect the beauty of the moment. My Bride doesn’t know the power behind my tears, the weight of my memories, the twinkle in my eye or the brevity of time.  But she will.  God willing, she will have her own transitions.  I want to model for her the priceless travels of seasons transitioned well.  This is my gift to her … and hopefully her gift to her daughter.  So, today I look back at my Bride, my daughter, and I look forward to a new transition.  This Mother of the Bride will shed the tears, hold the memories, feel all the feels and commit to tuck them all into a place in my heart that will be protected for only one keeper of the key:  my daughter.