“She’s gunna love this,” I thought to myself while scrubbing the kitchen floor. Hours had already been spent vacuuming, dusting and dish-washing. “It will all be worth it.” To top it off, I am going to light candles and play classical music. I want it to be perfect; peaceful, relaxing. She deserves more than I can give but this is a start. She’s here! Momma.
I don’t know many 15 year old boys who will do this for their mom but I had too. I don’t mean I was forced. No, quite the contrary. I was compelled. What compelled me? It was certainly not done out of the goodness of my own heart. I was reckless, rebellious, immature and definitely not easy to raise. The profound love my mother administered over me, as a child, compelled me to this type of service. Something in me issued forth a deep longing to please the woman who unconditionally and relentlessly loved me. Her love was more motivating than a teenagers selfishness.
This post won’t suffice to give my mom the praise she deserves. But I can’t go through a semester as a feminist blogger and not dedicate one of my posts to the woman who ingrained in me the priceless quality of appreciating, honoring and genuinely respecting women.
My mom knows how to love. My mom knows how to comfort. My mom knows how to work. My mom knows how to relax. My mom knows how to teach. My mom is patient. She is kind. She is gentle. She is caring. She is hospitable. She’s introspective. She is dedicated. She is loyal. She is strong. She is bold. She is funny. My mom knows how to laugh. My mom is a damn good cook. My mom sees the beauty of humility. My mom sees the honor in unremittingly respecting and loving her husband. My mom sees the fame in fighting for her family. Momma bear will wreck you if you hurt me (Don’t get me started about papa bear). My mom is disciplined in her faith and is in constant pursuit of good. My mom is an unassuming leader. I love her deeply.
Only tears can adequately describe my love for her.
Tears speak. Tears have the capacity to unfold your soul and testify with confidence that which you treasure. Tears speak louder and with more poise than a hundred poems. I am certain, the greatest assurance you may grasp as undeniable proof that someone loves you is not their voice but their spirit-filled, salty, honest tears. When you are so invested in someone that their pain warrants, even necessitates, pure and virtuous tears, you know you love. My mother is not a crier. She doesn’t get misty-eyed during emotional movies. She doesn’t cry when she is nervous, intimidated or even in pain. Her tears are reserved for advocating truth. Thus, I am courageously convinced that my mother loves me because she sat with me, weeping, on a kitchen floor in the middle of the night when I lost everything. That cold kitchen floor hosted a beautiful encounter of tender allegiance and affection. Having been stripped of my identity, I was utterly lost. At the lowest point of my life, in the deepest trenches of my heart-wrenched soul, she was there and she wept for her son. Her eyes sweat for me. They toiled and labored to reinstitute life. She spoke, her tears yelled, “You are my son and I will love you always.”
This is a love that compels. This is the beauty and the undeniable purpose in pain. This is a woman. Here’s to you Momma.