Belief and my mom

The best way to make sure that everyone actually reads what you have to say about your mom is to post it on a day other than mother’s day. Also, that extends the holiday, which is a favorite practice in my home. We like birthday weeks and half birthdays and Sundays and any occasion to celebrate people and eat cake or some other delicious food.

So, my mom? I could go on about all the soccer, softball, and volleyball games she attended, skating shows she did makeup for, meals she’s cooked, laundry loads done, ride given, clothes bought, and all those other tasks which moms complete on the daily, rarely getting enough gratitude from the recipients.

I could do that, but instead, I’ll tell you a story, because I love stories.

Once upon a time (don’t all good stories start that way? no? oh, well now  you tell me), my mom gave birth to one daughter. The whole family rejoiced at her birth. My parents were so pleased with their first child that they decided to have another one, who ended up also being delightful (that’s me).

Right from the beginning, my mom believed in me. (My dad has, too, but his day isn’t til June) When I wanted to “learn more about that skating on one foot”, she signed me up for lessons. She believed in me enough to let me start paying for my own private lessons in middle school. She believed in Brooke and me enough to give us baskets of laundry to fold, not minding that we sometimes played with the underwear (why, I do not know) before it actually got folded. Then, in sixth grade, she passed on the beautiful laundry tradition to me.

When I decided that I wouldn’t follow in my mom and sister’s footsteps and could rather play the oboe than the flute, she took me to A to G Music and eventually bought me a clarinet. She didn’t mind that I had a deep need to be an individual and could thus not play the same instrument.

When I went through middle school girl drama, she listened to my cries for security and reminded me that we’d all grow out of it, that drama was always because of insecurity or immaturity, both of which are curable.

When I told her and my dad that I wanted to go to Costa Rica on the school mission trip, the same year that my sister was going, and that we’d both need to fundraise $2,000 (that’s each, folks), I don’t remember them batting an eyelash at the number. I remember them buying stamps and envelopes for us and proofreading our support letter before we sent them out.

When I told her that I had the opportunity to go to India, missing two weeks of school (read: two weeks of Calculus), she looked at plane ticket prices and helped me find appropriate clothing and prayed for me every day that I was there. She and my dad emailed me faithfully every day that I was away and bought me international texting so I could keep in touch.

When my heart felt broken, not just once but multiple times from varying causes, she believed in my ability to bounce back and pointed me to the God who heals all bumps, bruises, scrapes, and fractures. She handed me tissues and listened to my tearful, runny-nosed ventings.

When I told her and my dad that I wanted to go abroad, they said, “we’re coming, too!” and planned their flights just a couple months after I bought mine. They floated me money so I could pay for my ticket, believing in the work ethic they’d instilled in me that I’d be able to pay them back in time.

On the days when I feel like I’m small and like I haven’t accomplished much, my mom reminds me that God has done incredible things in my life and will continue to. He’s working in my failures (or what seem to be so). He’s working in my heart, in my friends, in my everything. She’s lead the way in saying “yes” to God and believing that He is our way.

I’m so thankful for my mom. Thanks for always believing in me.

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