Blowin’ In: Queen of Peace

By Sue Mangan

When my youngest son turned three, we traveled to Ireland as a family for the first time. Our children played with stones on the beach, ate ice cream cones topped with Cadbury Flake, and laid freshly picked wildflowers at the Virgin Mary’s grotto. As the summer sun barely sets by midnight in the West of Ireland, the days were long and uncomplicated.

My husband’s cousins also traveled to Ireland that summer with their young families; we enjoyed an unplanned reunion filled with laughter and memories. Even my mother and her sister made the journey over to spend time with our families.

It is during that holiday that my daughter and mom snuggled on the banks of Keem Beach and my middle son learned about the joy of tide pools and sand crabs. My mother would walk along the Irish lanes with a gaggle of the children and pick wildflowers. As she once taught me the names of the birds and trees, talking more than teaching, she rattled off the names of the flowers while the children held her hand.

Throughout my growing years, my mother taught me without preaching. I basically watched and listened as she baked and gardened, nursed and soothed.

One of my earliest memories of my mom is riding on a child’s seat on the back of her Schwinn bicycle. It was a warm summer day, and we were biking through the winding courtyard of our neighborhood parish. We loved the statue of Mary that graced the path between the school and our church.

As always, my mother was identifying the flowers and trees that grew in our Chicago neighborhood. The elderly ladies in our parish prided themselves on the peonies and old roses that grew along their chain-linked fences.

I was particularly enamored with black-eyed Susans, as I thought they were named after me, putting aside, of course, the fact that my eyes were green. During that bike ride, my foot became caught in the tire, and we fell onto the low stone wall that bordered the grass of our church. My mother gathered me in her arms and soothed my tears, ensuring me that I would be okay.

So often, my memories are visceral. I can feel what it was like to be small and vulnerable, protected by my mother. I can still feel her gentle kindness and hear her comforting words.

When my parents retired to Crooked Lake, my mother taught me the names of the birds that hovered at her feeders and fished in the waters outside of her kitchen windows.

Tufted-titmice, nuthatches, coots, ruby-throated hummingbirds, a lone rare bluebird, and of course the mute swans.

My mother warned me of the mute swans. They can be vicious while protecting their nests. In truth, when a swan unfolds her wings and proudly rises to her full height, she is almost the size of my petite frame and fierce in her disposition. For all their noted aggression, the swans appear serene, wise, nurturing.

Perhaps this is the plight of all mothers. We love our children and fiercely wish to protect them from falls and heartaches, but life will lead its own course and our young will follow. And so, my mother continued to walk with the children and teach them about the flowers, while I worried that they would fall or take the wrong path.

I Believe I Can Fly

It was on that holiday that my three-year-old son thought that he could fly. We were finishing lunch in our two-story Irish holiday cottage, and I went to check on my son, who was supposed to be sleeping. Gently, I opened the door and saw him standing on the ledge of the window like Peter Pan ready to alight across London’s sky to Neverland.

“Hi Mommy, look what I can do,” my son called. My heart was about to beat outside of my chest, but I plastered a smile to my face and softly whispered how nice, as I carefully made my way across the room.

Sweeping him into my arms, I readily ended his superhero status. Eyes wet with disappointment, he looked up at me and said, “Why’d you do that?”

I hugged him tighter and replied, “So you will remember never to stand on a window ledge again!” Over the years, I have shared my mother’s wisdom with my children. I refer to her teachings as “Mema-isms.”

When I had to scold or offer unwanted advice, I would simply credit my courses in “Mother School.” My now twenty-five-year-old daughter retorts, “What does that even mean?”

As my mother always told me, “You never know what it is like to be a mother until you are one yourself.” Much has transpired in my life since the Irish holiday that I spent with my mother.

My youngest son is graduating from college this May. He is the last in our nest to reach maturity. How proud I am of my son’s growth and perseverance; his ability to look toward the future rather than worrying about the stones he may stumble upon along the way.

In my heart, my son is still that same little visionary daredevil who once boldly climbed onto the ledge of an Irish windowsill. Rather than see the challenge, he saw the vast blue skies and the promise of unending hills of green.

Recently, my son was home for his spring break. It was St. Patrick’s Day weekend, and my daughter was driving the Mangan crew to a celebration.

My son put his favorite Irish playlist on the Bluetooth. I laughed at our shared enthusiasm. In complete unison, we all sang in our most resonant voices, “Lady of Knock, our Queen of Peace.” Although our future joy and travails seem to follow us with the passing of every hour, for that moment we were content with our collective present.

The bond between a mother and child is strong; it is no wonder that spring birds protect their nests with such ferocity. Strength hides in the guise of beauty, of gentle wisdom, while innocence rests in the hearts of all that a mother holds dear.