by Minister Marvin K White

And then my mama, Margaret, the mother of me, Marvin, called Miss Mary, the Mother of Jesus, and said, “I just heard on the news about your son. And I knew I had to call. I know my sorry not much, but I am—sorry—for your loss. I’m a mother too. I know.”

Then my mama said, “I’m going to swing by and pick up Larcenia Floyd, the Mother of George, and  Sheneen McClain, the Mother of Elijah, and Sybrina Fulton, the Mother of Trayvon, and Wanda Cooper Jones, the Mother of Ahmaud.

Miss Mary, the Mother of Jesus, got that far off look in her eyes.

“Miss Mary,” my mama say, “Don’t worry about that thread, we gon fix it, we your sewing kit, and that hole you’re in will not get any bigger. We know everybody talking about him to you and you ain’t had a chance yet to just sit with your grief. So we gon sit with you.”

And when they got to Mary’s, the Mother of Jesus house, my Mama and Nem said, “You take your time getting back into creation okay? Sister Larcenia, open up those curtains, and crack the window a little bit and let some fresh air in. Aunty Sheenen, don’t you think it would be nice if you took Miss Mary outside, and sat under the sun for a while. And Miss Allison got Teacakes, made her great-grandmama teacakes. Miss Wanda stopped by Honey Bake and picked up a big old Spiral Cut, Bone In Ham. Miss Gwen in the kitchen doing the Dishes and  your bingo club sent devilled eggs. Miss Geneva want to know where do you keep your Tupperware. Never mind, she found it. My son is cutting your lawn, I hope you don’t mind. Yes, that’s a good picture of Jesus they using on the news.”

This is how the women in my family still respond to death. Any death. They respond with life-affirming gestures. After the details are done and the dust settles, the house empties, and the phone calls trickle down, they begin the very real work of making sure the grief holding begins. That’s when the mothers in my family are activated. They become mothers in other ways. I marvel at their ability to become women who mother other mothers. They seem to become more of themselves in these times. No one’s grief is too big for these women to hold.

Their ministry of presence shows itself to be about a radical and particular kind of caring. Mothering isn’t the role to which they are relegated. By their own volition they clean, cook and keep watch. They field questions and run baths. They witness and they sit. While the news says “Another young African-American man has been killed at the hands of…” the mothers call the other mothers—Lesley McSpadden, the Mother of Mike, Gloria Darden, the Mother of Freddie, And Allison Jean, the Mother of Botham. My mama say, “My boys played with your boys. I knew Jesus, I knew Freddie, Michael and I knew Eric like I know my own. Oooh Cha, the amount of food them boys could eat when they was over.”

The women sit up under one another. Commiserate. Pass the time that never seems to pass. This is not a ministry of futzing. Mothering, as practiced by the women who know what it is like, is an intentional act of restoring another mother to balance in the face of a dizzying lost, like that of a child. Mothering is the suspension of time constraints and social status in service of the needs of the grieving. Mothering is not coddling. It relieves guilt, “This could happen to any of us. This did happen to many of us. It is not your fault Miss Mary, the Mother of Jesus. Yes, your child knew you loved them. How do I know? Because a mother’s love once it is spoken slicks and coats the lives of our children. Mothering knows and attends, Miss Mary.”

“Yes,” my mama said, “I can see him lining up all the neighborhood kids and playing temple with them. Those carnations from the bleeding heart wreath show gon’ look nice in that vase. You want me to answer that? Fouche Hudson’s Funeral Home, right? In lieu of? Rolling Hills Cemetery? Who would have ever thought, Miss Mary, we would be the two holding each other up like this? Me from down south, Shreveport, and you from back east, Jerusalem.

We all got extra food stamps in our purse, don’t worry, we will not run out of anything. Miss Lesly got postage stamps, and she will mail those bills for you. And Miss Gloria already did two loads of laundry, folded them, and put them away. That’s right,  you go right on ahead and cry, Miss Mary, Mother of Jesus. Go on ahead and cry Miss Tamika Palmer, the Mother of Breonna, Go on ahead and cry Michelle Kenney, the Mother of Antwon, Go on ahead and cry Gwen Carr, the Mother of Eric, Go on ahead and cry Geneva Reed-Veal, the Mother of Sandra, Everybody here, go head on and cry, and then tell all the Mothers Of’s, to hold on, cuz we on our way.”