Mothering Sunday

Dedicated to my son, Nathaniel

Mother day; a day for many to show their appreciation towards their own mothers, mothers-in-law, grandmothers, stepmothers etc.   It is an annual event worldwide yet the day to celebrate can be quite different for each country in place. 

Growing up in Singapore, where Mother's Day falls consistently on the second Sunday of May, the date held a certain predictability, a rhythm that I came to rely on. But now, thousands of miles away from home, the significance of this day feels both poignant and elusive in too many ways to name. 

In the UK,  it is called the Mothering Sunday held on the fourth Sunday of Lent. It is exactly three weeks before Easter Sunday and usually falls in the second half of March or early April. 

Mothering Sunday was originally a time when people returned to the church, in which they were baptized or where they attended services when they were children. This meant that families were reunited as adults returned to the towns and villages where they grew up. In time, it became customary for young people who were working as servants in large houses, to be given a holiday on Mothering Sunday. They could use this day to visit their own mother and often took a gift of food or hand-me-down clothing from their employers to her. In turn, this moved towards the modern holiday, on which people still visit and take gifts to their mothers. 

Since mothering Sunday in UK follows the Lent, I'm reminded of the profound truth that lies at the heart of my journey since that fateful Good Friday! 

On this day, when the Brits celebrate the bond between mothers and children, I am acutely aware of the void left in the wake.   Celebration has not sit right with me for a long time especially on this day when my son's absence is felt heavily. 

His departure is as if I have awaken to a world where the laws of physics have been upended.    I had referenced all events in my life to his birthdate.   But I am now greeted by a surreal sense of weightlessness like the pull of gravity which anchored me to the earth is gone.  Now, I feel afloat, driftng in a sea of boundless space, untethered and weightless. 

I find myself drifting aimlessly, like one who has lost her sense of timing, untethered from the familiar forces that once governed my existence.  The ground beneath my feet, once solid and dependable, has vanished, leaving me suspended in a state of perpetual uncertainty.   I am finding it increasingly difficult to remember the years Nathaniel has left my side.   

 "What a hopeless mum I am?"   

 “No mother will ever forget their own child”,  my counsellor comforted me when I went to see him during my  recent trip to Singapore when I told him that I thought I no longer need to see him (my counsellor) about that void.  Those words echoed to my consciousness or subconsciousness each time I felt I should be getting over him since I can no longer count the years that has gone by.

Yet, the immense unexpressed emotions swirl within me every time his picture surfaces on my phone, when I returned to Singapore each time, when it's Mothering Sunday,  when I see the daffodils (his place of burial is called the Daffodils),  when.... 

The immense sense of grief that washes over me whenever I am reminded of my son's death is like an unyielding tide, relentless in its force and overwhelming in its intensity.  It's as if every memory, every fleeting thought of him, carries with it the weight of a thousand boulders, crushing me beneath their unbearable burden. Each recollection is a jagged shard of pain, piercing the fragile fabric of my heart and leaving behind a raw, gaping wound that refuses to heal. 

In those moments, it feels as though the very air around me has thickened with sorrow, suffocating me with its oppressive weight. I am engulfed in a sea of anguish, drowning in the depths of my own despair, unable to find respite or solace from the relentless onslaught of grief. 

And yet, amidst the darkness and despair, there is a glimmer of light—a flicker of hope that refuses to be extinguished. For even in the depths of my sorrow, I am reminded of the boundless love that still binds us together, transcending even the veil of death. 

In those moments of unbearable pain, I was also acutely reminded of Nathaniel's liveliness  and caring nature as if he has a purpose here on earth - to  demonstrate the love in action.     He never bear grudges to those who did him injustice,  he genuinely cares about others,  older or younger.   He inspired the younger ones in the church to be faithful.  The eulogies had taught me a life lesson that I can no longer hide. 

This brought to mind the Australian nurse, Bronnie Ware who spent several years working in palliative care, caring for patients in the last 12 weeks of their lives. She recorded their dying epiphanies in a blog called Inspiration and Chai, which gathered so much attention that she put her observations into a book called The Top Five Regrets of the Dying.    

Unlike those in their last 12 weeks of their lives -  I probably have another 30-50years to live.  Yet,  I cannot turn back the clock,  I can no longer do anything else for him as a mum,  I can no longer hear his cheerful voice. So I allow myself to feel the depths of my grief, to surrender to the waves of sorrow that threaten to overwhelm me. For in embracing my pain, I honor the memory of my son and the love he had demonstrated.   And finding solace in the knowledge that he will always be a part of me, forever cherished and never forgotten. 

I hold onto the memories he has left for me.   With the realisation that I can  only live in worthy of his memories; is to live now, is to live in the presence, is to treasure what I have, not to let the past haunt me nor the future worries me; living a worthy life - a life of truth, a life of authenticity.   A life that counts !

14th April 2024