Mourning a Mother, Becoming a Bride

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ADELAE ZAMBON

 

My mother made her own wedding dress, designing, constructing and piecing it together with her mother at their farmhouse dining room table. She was crafty like that.

As a little girl, I recall pouring over the thick leather-bound photo album sitting on the mahogany coffee table in our formal living room. Each framed image captured my young parents on their wedding day, my mother with the tiara from her own mother’s wedding ensemble and my dad with his boyish, youthful face and well-rested eyes. It seemed like the archetypal wedding, one I wanted mine to one day model.

From a young age, my mom taught me how to sew; first by hand and little by little I grew my way to the Husqvarna machine with its embroidery settings and foot pedal. As I made little aprons and elastic-waist skirts, my mom would lean over my shoulder guiding my hands as we directed the needle across the fibers of the fabric. I looked forward to working on an even bigger project with her one day: making my own wedding dress.

A woman always so generous with her time and talent, my mother was quick to offer her assistance and lend a helping hand. Whether it was altering the fit of bridesmaids dresses and hemming groomsmen suit pants for friends’ weddings or arranging flower bouquets for my cousin’s special day, her heart was one of service. I looked forward to sharing those moments with her one day preparing for my own wedding day.

Like many little girls, I dreamed of planning a wedding, preparing for marriage and making a home of my own. I had the Pinterest board and took mental notes of the lovely details with each wedding I attended over the years.

I saw friends before me go from boutique to boutique alongside their mom, grandmother and friends to find the right dress; I saw the photos on my social media feed of the mother-daughter venue visits, food tastings and planning luncheons to make wedding day decisions together. I looked forward to my turn to share the excitement of such a season with my own mother-of-the-bride. . .

When the day came, the joy of finding the man I would marry was such a pinnacle moment; one, though, that carried a cross at its peak. My mom was battling a terminal illness. The grief of this reality mixed with the joy of being engaged and preparing for marriage taught me the two could coexist: joy and sorrow.

Her ability to walk with me in this season was going to be different than we had both imagined. Suddenly, dreams were met with disappointments. Expectations encountered reality. The stepping stones to the altar I had hoped to share with my mom were not what I had seen others experience. Processing her illness and its manifold extenuating circumstances was heavy. Pairing that alongside detaching and grieving my mom’s full presence in this period of my life was too. Once more, I wanted to see my mom lean in, excitement illuminating her eyes, to guide me through every stitch formulating my impending new life as a wife.

Maybe you are going through something like this too? Maybe you are navigating a time that carries with it both blessing and sorrow. Maybe you’re taking steps into married life, grieving the one who first showed you what it meant to be a wife.

Maybe you’re experiencing the painful tension of walking alongside a loved one who is ill, comforting and caring for them, acknowledging the profound cross they are bearing, while also confronting your own personal grief caused by their suffering.

If you are, I see you. I’m praying for you. You are not alone.

Such pain is real and valid. The desire for your loved one to walk with you over the threshold into marriage is good. And it can be lonely to mourn your mother as you become a bride. Even if you are happy for others who didn’t have to endure the ache you’re living.

Nonetheless, your cross of suffering is real; the price of this surrender, sanctifying. I’ve been in those trenches and it is hard on the heart.

Name the hopes and dreams you once had about this engagement season. List them on a sheet of paper. See them for the valid disappointments they are. Tell the story of what you had hoped this time in your life would look like. The more tangible you allow these disappointments to be, the easier they are to let go. But first, let yourself mourn.

About the Author: Adelae Zambon is a “transplant Texan,” who met and married a Canadian singer-songwriter. Together they share a love for ministry and journeying with other couples into the healing, redemptive power of the Sacrament of Marriage. In her spare time, Adelae enjoys road trips punctuated by local coffee shop stops along the way. However, she will most often be found chasing a delightfully inquisitive toddler or savoring every moment of naptime for the space it offers her to write.

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