January 16: My mom's birthday. The day holds more significance for me now than ever. As a kid, I realized that my mom had a birthday like the rest of us, but grown-ups didn't seem to celebrate in the same way. There were years that I made a card, and later when I had money of my own, purchased cards and small gifts. I remember trying my hand at baking birthday cakes, and my mom seemed to appreciate whatever we did, or didn't do to celebrate her special day.
My perception of my mom changed drastically in 1999 when I became a mother. Not only did I begin to realize and appreciate what hard work it is to parent and how some sacrifices were easy to make out of love, but that others bring fears and tears. My mom seldom seemed to fear and rarely shed tears; to me that was and is a sign of her quiet strength and strong faith in God.
As we entered the journey of foster care, our most staunch supporter was my mother; babysitting, advice, a listening ear - she did it all. During one particular placement of two young brothers which lasted for more than two years, I called my mom almost daily. At the time we had five little boys in the house of all different personalities, dispositions, and stages of development. Who else could I call on who would listen to me vent about the holes in the drywall and broken toys, give me ideas for discipline and potty-training, be available to watch the crew when I had to be at visits.
As we've gained experience, and as I've tried my best to fashion my parenting skills from everything I've learned from my mom, the form of my neediness has changed. As the kids have grown and we've faced new and curious challenges, my questions and concerns have also evolved. When Angel died, my first phone call was to my mom; she didn't say much and didn't need to - I wouldn't have wanted her to. She cried and hurt along with me, allowed me to ask hard questions, and mourned Angel's loss as well.
Several years ago we cared for a seventeen year old girl who was struggling to live with our white family in our suburban home. She wasn't connecting in school and claimed to be 'bored' at our house even though we suggested many activities. Having some artistic interest, she eventually decided she wanted to sew a patchwork bag - with which I could offer absolutely no assistance beyond driving her to the store for supplies. But Grammy sews! She agreed to spend most afternoons with this young lady; together they worked on and completed the project.
That situation demonstrated to me the characteristic that I admire most in my mom: loving patience. Not the kind of patience that includes foot-tapping, sighing, and eye-rolling; or reminding, prompting, and nagging - because that's the kind of patience my kids have endured from me. On the other hand, I am hard-pressed to recall a time when my mom raised her voice or grew impatient with me. Oh, there was discipline - well-deserved punishments, consequences that were of no surprise to me.
Over time and with much prayer - offered by me and my parents - God has blessed me with a measure of loving patience which on my own is not possible. With God's continued help and my mom's continued example, I am hopeful that my children will be able to experience, grow from, and pass along this wonderful, strong, gentle heritage. Happy Birthday, Mom!
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