There is a lot of mythology surrounding my birth. All of it is true. Some of it actually happened.
I think of how my Mum wanted to call me Jolyon and shorten it to Joly, but my Dad disliked the name, so, as a bump, I was called Thor. Perhaps my infamous wriggling in the womb felt like the hammer-blows of a god. I think of how the doctor who delivered me was called Dr Jolley, so my Mum won the day and got the name she wanted all along. How it turns out his name was actually spelt Dr Jolie, so now my name carries an erroneous ‘E’ for good measure. I think of how my parents wanted an even number of children, so as the third of four, I convinced myself I was the happy accident. How my grandfather grumbled at the thought of another birthday to forget each year, while my Nana celebrated as my birth was announced at the Liberal Democrat Party Conference.
There’s mythology and story surrounding the birth of Christ too—of his mother and father, of those who came to visit him, of what happened after. But you don’t need me to rehearse that; it’s Lent, after all, not Christmas.
I imagine you have stories about your birth too—about how you came into the world, the people who were waiting for you, the lives you stepped into. Some of those stories may be beautiful, others painful, some told with laughter, others with silence. Whatever they are, they are yours, shaped and reshaped over time.
Families are complicated. Many of you will be joyfully celebrating Mothering Sunday today, and so you should. Others will find this day more difficult—and that’s more than okay too. Some may feel indifferent. And for some of our international members, the whole idea might just seem a bit odd.
However you relate to this day, there is no right way. What matters is that in all the complexity of family, love, and belonging, we make space for one another’s stories.
Jolley Gosnold
