Happy Mother’s Day

This is my mom…with a much tinier, much darker-haired Owen. Isn’t she pretty?

Simply put, my mom is a gift. I find a reason to call her most days, and there is not a day that goes by that I’m not thankful for the fact that we get along so well. In fact, there are only a handful of people in my life who are almost guaranteed to make me pee a little each time I see them because they get me laughing so hard. My mom’s one of them, and usually it happens when we’re trying to move a large piece of furniture together.

More than anyone else in my life, she has shown me what it looks like to be a servant in the way that Jesus referred to it. Time and time again growing up, I saw her put her own needs behind the needs of our entire family. And even though I’ve mentioned this on this blog before, and even though I will probably talk about it at her funeral one day…never, never will I forget how she kept all three of us alive after we brought Owen home from the hospital (making all of my favorite comfort foods to boot), nor how she, without complaint, cleaned up the capital-M Mess we left behind at the house when we finally went to the hospital after laboring at home all night.

More than that, in word and deed, she consistently relied on Christ…urging me to do the same when, as a kid, behaving as I should seemed impossible, when my fourteen-year-old world was crumbling around me because I’d been dumped*, when I’ve struggled with fear and worry, when grieving, when forging through marital tiffs, when, when, when…

*(You guys were right, Mom and Dad. No one should ever date anyone when they’re fourteen. Womp Womp.)

I literally pray, every night, that Owen will see me in the same ways I saw her. That he will see in me the consistency, the reliability, the kindness, and patience I saw in her. That he will know that he will be loved unconditionally like I knew I was from her. And on so many days, this feels overwhelmingly daunting. Because I know myself, and I know in the darkest parts of me, I am unforgiving, ungracious, unmerciful, judgmental, and impatient.

But what mercy has been given to me that I have such a tangible example of love to try, by grace, to model after.

A few other Mother’s Day honorable mentions, in list form:

- I will never, ever, make stuffed cabbage as good as my mom’s.
- One time, when I was probably eight, my mom had a broken blood vessel in her eye, and it absolutely horrified me. I couldn’t even look at her. The next morning, I woke up to a special good morning message from her, taped to my bedside lamp just inches from my face, that had a large, blood-filled eye drawn on it. Super-star mom move right there.
- My mom has seriously good interior design sense and has been the recipient of months and months of my verbal hemming and hawing over paint/curtains/wall-hanging decisions. She loves those conversations, I’m sure of it.

So, Mom…happy Mother’s Day. I love you, and am so, so thankful that you’re my Mom, and that you’re this boy’s Grandma.

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