Remembering my Mother on my Birthday

I am a little bemused to discover recently that, despite all the stories I've written about those I love, I have yet to address the subject of my mother. Perhaps because I find it difficult to do so. Not because we had a strained relationship or unresolved issues. Quite the contrary. It might just be because I want to keep her to myself just a little while longer.

I'm also afraid of doing her a disservice. I don't want to diminish her in any way or in anyone's eyes. As a child, she was my world. As an adult...well, let's just say she is never far from me.

My mother was very private; she let few people into her daily life and fewer still into the small, delightful secrets she kept. These gentle acts of kindness and generosity still amaze me, yet she considered them to be private obligations that would diminish in value should they become public. Family members to this day pull me aside and tell me how she kept the wolf from many doors by paying off bills, buying food, lending money and more.  She was exceptionally kind to the younger women in our family and helped them transition from tomboys into beauty queens. She herself remains to this day as the single most beautiful woman I have ever seen.

She understood the power of forgiveness--having been forgiven herself--and always strove to extend and demonstrate that forgiveness to others by making and maintaining a personal commitment to each of us--a reflection of her personal relationship with God. Because He had accepted her with all her faults and flaws, she could do no less than to accept all of us just as we were.

My mother understood that life was about choices. She herself made choices by faith with the confidence of knowing that in all things--all things--God works for the good of those that love Him (Rom 8:28). One particular choice she made had a profound effect on my own life.

In 1961, when I was born, special needs children were not cherished and treasured as they are today. My birth had many complications which, in combination, led my mother's doctor to have a serious conversation with her. She, he explained in so many words, had been selfish to bring me into this world. Given the challenges I faced (club feet, misformed pelvis, kidney disease, jaundice, possible mental retardation), she ought to do the right thing and put me (away) in a place where others tasked with such problem children could take on the burden that would undoubtedly be me.

When she asked to see me for the first time (they didn't do natural childbirth in those days), they instead brought her a form to sign to have me committed. Undaunted, she insisted. "He may be damaged," she said, "but he's mine." Over 20 years later, when I graduated with honors from the University of Missouri, she sent that doctor an invitation to the ceremony.

That's not to say that my early years were easy for her. She searched out every doctor on her own, queried every special needs organization for resources and help. She found little assistance. All the therapy, all the rehabilitation, all the instruction came trial and error at her hands. My father, frustrated and devastated over his helplessness, turned his attention to the things he could control and supported her while she did the hard work of taking me to an endless procession of doctors while repairs were made.

I still remember Mom and Dad visiting me in the hospital in Los Angeles, Dad putting a tiny cap gun set in my crib so I'd have something to play with. I remember the leg braces, special boots and shoes, and my mother's hurt while she watched me miss out on things I could not physically do. But, she never regretted her choice that day to be my mother. She made that choice with prayer, confident that God would work in my life to His glory. And for that, I will always love her.