“Comparison is the thief of joy.” I had to look that up to see who is credited with saying that. Apparently, President Theodore Roosevelt was a smart guy. He said this long before social media hit you in the face everyday with pictures of smiling, happy, perfectly dressed people in perfectly decorated homes that are worthy of the cover of Southern Living.
Mother’s Day found me at my grandparents’ farm again, same as last year. My parents were traveling so I didn’t go to see my mother, and my kids had been home recently and didn’t want to spend the gas money to drive here again. So I decided I wanted to go to my happy place, which is the farm. Now when I say “farm,” I am using that term loosely. There are no animals, and this year there are no crops. There is not even a house there now, only a lonely looking, dilapidated barn. What is there is my heart–a heart full of happy memories of simpler times. Fields as far as the eye can see. A barely-paved road that winds through the woods and down the hill to Greasy Creek. So it was there that I sat in my fold-up chair and closed my eyes, soaking in the sounds of the water rippling and the birds singing while the breeze gently touched my skin. It was magic. It’s as though all my problems just sailed along the waters of the creek as it flowed by. I stepped into the cold water and watched the mud circle up over my feet and then settle back again. Meanwhile, Todd was across the creek taking pictures of cows like they were animals in the zoo. I giggled at the thought of how ridiculous we must have looked to people who actually live on a farm.
It was a perfectly lovely day. Once I got home, I grabbed my iPad and checked out Facebook. Suddenly I was inundated with pictures of friends and their families gathered round. Together. Smiling. Happy. And then I caught myself: “Why couldn’t my kids come home like those kids?” “Look how all those kids drove home to see their moms.” “Stop it!” I told myself. “You had a very nice day until you looked at those pictures of other moms and their children.” Then I remembered Judy.
As we drove away from the farm, we passed by the lane that takes you to the family cemetery. Next to the lane is the house of a distant relative, the lady who keeps up with the plots and makes sure the cemetery gets mowed every other week in the summer. She was outside in her yard, holding shears and getting ready to trim a shrub. We decided to stop in. I don’t remember if I’d ever met Judy before. If I had, it would have been when I was younger. We pulled in the lane, lowered the window in the van, and introduced ourselves. My husband had talked to her on the phone several months ago about burial plots. She remembered and invited us to come up to the back porch so she could show us the map of the cemetery “real estate.” We ended up staying quite a while and chatting with her. The afternoon breeze blew gently through the covered back porch as we looked out over the fields and the cemetery in the distance. Her peonies were in full bloom and her old ginkgo tree was spilling onto the porch.
As we talked, she told us about her son who passed away nearly fifteen years ago. She talked about how difficult Mother’s Day is for her. “Some years I don’t even go to church,” she said. “It’s just too hard. They give out the awards for youngest mother, oldest mother, mother with the most children. But I managed to go today,” she told us. I grew up in a church that recognized mothers in that way each year, so I understood. When we drove away, I said to my husband, “I’m really glad we stopped. I hope we brightened her day a little.” He said, “Didn’t you notice how long she talked? How she didn’t want to end the conversation? I think she was glad we stopped by.”
Judy is still mourning the loss of her son, and I was pouting because my kiddos didn’t come home. I can pick up the phone and call or Facetime my children no matter where they are. She had to go down to the cemetery that morning to feel near to her son. Comparison may be the thief of joy, but it can also be the thing that changes our perspective.
I had a great Mother’s Day. I woke up to a text greeting from my son. On Saturday Todd had come home with some of my favorite junk food, so I happily drank my coffee and ate my little white powdered sugar donuts on the drive to the farm. When I got hungry as I sat by the creek, I grabbed my big bag of Cheezits. I relaxed in my chair while Todd dug up wild ferns for me to bring home and put in my planters. He put up with me jamming to the Hamilton soundtrack on the drive home. I talked to my sister, my daughter, and my mom before the day was over. It was a good day. It might not make Facebook, but it was a good day.
