My mom loved maps. And history. Those were two things that we didn’t have in common. I remember getting in an argument with her about the importance of family/personal history. I see now that I was far less right than I realized. The older I get, the more moments I live through where I wish I could call her and tell her that I see that she was right. The older I get, the more deeply I realize just how gracious she was to me ~ her ISTJ, strongly opinionated, moody, November-born middle child.
I’m sure that happens to everyone as they age ~ we all start to realize that our parents were just people doing the best they could with what they had. But it’s so strange to just have to sit with that and not be able to bond over it. Laugh. Apologize. Now that I’m the same as age as she was when she had me, I have so many more questions about our personal histories; and I find myself more fascinated by globes and place and identity.
But aside from those things, I marvel at how she could have possibly kept sane with all the many difficulties she faced raising 5 children so short a distance from the sand and the sea, but not getting to visit very often.
I wonder, but I know it was grace. I’m reading Seven Women by Eric Metaxas, and his short bio on Susanne Wesley, the mother of John + Charles Wesley (and their 17 siblings, 9 of which died in infancy) made me think about my own mother and how much of a striver she was. And I always hoped that she would realize how significant and seen and irreplaceable she was in the world. Just by being our mother.
Here’s to the woman that instilled in me a love of Jesus and chocolate and PBS specials; who wouldn’t let me drop out of college to get married to my nonexistent boyfriend (ha.); who corrected my grammar in the middle of my sentences and catered to my random eating aversions.
I never stop thanking God for you, mamika.