Honoring Mom

May just seems to be the time when we are "supposed to" honor our mothers. For reasons I will not fully disclose, I don't generally care for Mother's Day. Part of it could be rebellion--I don't like it when someone tells me I must do something. But most of it is far more personal than that. As an aside, it's better than it used to be. A few year's ago I would have said I HATE Mother's Day. Small steps...small steps....

For me, May also happens to be my mom's birthday. Actually, it's today, the 25th. And on this 25th day of May, mom's birthday, she came over to clean my house. For the zillioneth time this year. I tried to tell her it was ridiculous to spend her birthday morning cleaning her own house, let alone mine but she insisted it was her birthday and she could do whatever she wanted. One in a long line, she said.

May was also the month my parents were married and the 17th would have been their 42nd anniversary. That would be another reason to honor her (and dad but we're talking about mom here) and the commitment she had to her marriage and family.

So, I have many reasons to honor my mother this month. But the reason I'm filled with an urgent need to do so now is actually due to events in the past several months. It's because of what she does on those days that have no special significance that minister to my soul, calm my spirit and bring bursts of happiness to my world. My mom is an "acts of service" kind of gal. She has been cleaning my house because I'm not able to do it myself. She makes Steve cookies because he loves them and I've not had the stamina to do it. She painted my house because I can't hold a brush and it was driving me crazy to leave it incomplete. And so much more.

A couple of months ago mom went with me to one of my tests because Steve could not. It wasn't supposed to be a big deal and I had planned to go alone. But she insisted. And I'm so glad she did. The tests were horrific. The pain nearly unbearable. Each one took 30 minutes and 10 minutes into the first I laid on the table with tears streaming down my face. The poor technician felt terrible, she asked if I wanted to stop, she said sorry but none of that helped. I finally whispered "can you please get my mom from the waiting room?" I thought perhaps some conversation would keep me pre-occupied and make it seem as if the time were going faster. A few minutes later she walked in the room, sat on a stool by my bed, held my hand and stroked my hair.

"It'll be okay," she said. "You can do this. WE can do this." And the next 20 minutes went just like that. "You're doing great!" "It's almost over!" I felt like a little girl all over again trusting my mom to tell me the truth and her strength pulled me through. Then we started the second test and it began all over again. "Hey, you're doing better on this one!" "We're just about there!" And then it was over. It was the last of my tests so she drove to the drugstore, told me to wait in the car and a few minutes later she emerged with some pain pills and a diet soda so I could take them immediately.

I said "mom, sorry I was such a baby before and that you had to listen to me cry." She said, "no need to be sorry. I'm just sorry I couldn't fix it for you. That's not easy for a mom to watch." It never occurred to me it would be just as rough on her as it was on me but it was. Yet she stuck it out. I'll never forget it.

A week later, on a Sunday, I couldn't get out of bed. Steve left for church and while we realize it's his job, I have a hunch he would have preferred to stay with me that day. But we both understand the deal. He asked me to call my mom and have her come over. I did so immediately after he left. I told her to let herself in because I couldn't get out of bed. A mere 20 minutes later she was standing in my bedroom. She put one arm under my neck; the other under my back and gently lifted me to a seated position. Steve had done this every day for a month already but this was different. She kept holding on as I leaned into her, tears streaming down my face. The pain was intense, the realization of my complete dependence was more than I could bear. She said "I know it's horrible. I wish I could make it go away. Let me help you into the shower--you'll feel better." She turned on the water, helped me in, then sat on my bed and waited for me. She came to help wash my hair, then sat back down, trying to help me retain as much dignity as possible.

She helped me dress then put me in the chair and scrambled some eggs. She sat with me watching movies until Steve got home at 1. "That's what moms do," she said as she left. "It's no big deal. I'm happy to do it."

All her children are long grown and out of the house but the role of mom has never stopped for her. Sure, it has changed, but in times of crisis, despair and hurt it reverts to the nurturing, protective mother hen. I'm not actually sure it's reverting TO something but more likely something that is always there, perhaps masked by the boundaries she doesn't cross with her adult children....until necessary.

So on this day of my mother's birth I honor her and thank God for her. I wish I had the words to fully express the emotions of my heart. I'd bet everything I have that she knows even though I can't.