Mother's Day Musings

            I live with Proverbs 31,

            With rubies and wisdom

            Purple and scarlet.

            ~

            Single parents are superheroes.  They work long hours for a salary less than some people make in a week and still manage to raise a family. Sleep doesn’t exist.  Faded clothes are fashionable.  To them, time shouldn’t be wasted on complaints of how unfair life might seem or how exhausted they are. Instead, they spend every moment fighting to keep the seams of the family together.

            I know firsthand the responsibility of a single parent.  I have watched worry line her face, easing only when another paycheck comes in, returning the second it’s gone.  I have seen bare cupboards and over-washed jeans, tattered shoes and raccoon circles around her eyes. 

            I’ll never forget the many nights I’d wake to the sounds of rustling pages and soft cries echoing from the kitchen as she tried to balance a non-existent checkbook.  Or the winter days I’d find her sick in the bathroom, uncertain of what we’d do when they turned off the heat.  Some days, she’d simply push aside the worry and move on to whatever chore was next on her list.  Other times she’d work just so that the worry wouldn’t consume her.  In awe, I watched her tackle the world one bill at a time, her cape flying behind her as she defeated every little struggle each day. 

            She wouldn’t like that comparison.  No, she considers herself Robin, the sidekick who follows the Superhero and trusts Him for every penny.  When the worry seeps into her veins, she sets aside the checkbook and brings out her Sword.  She kneels at her bedside whispering pleas and praise, and within minutes, she is her faithful self again, worry no longer visible in her pale face.

            ~

            My love for language is her fault.  From as early as I can remember, she always had a book in her hands, eyes absorbing the words, and fingers flipping the pages in rhythm.  Many nights I’d find her reading in the dark, the dark green flashlight casting flames against the pages as it rested in the crook of her neck.  When I struggled to read in kindergarten, Mom put on her teacher’s hat and spent an hour after school attempting to help me learn.  Gradually, she unlocked and nurtured an addiction until it completely took control of me.  The library, a small room in the school’s basement, became my escape.

Flash-forward to sixth grade.  It’s not easy having your mom as your teacher.  Other students expected me to know the answers to test questions or future exercises and wanted me to share that knowledge.  Truth was, she never allowed that kind of freedom.  I was treated just like any other student and was expected to follow all rules in the same way.  If I broke one, which did not happen, I would be punished like anyone else, except I had to face her wrath at home as well.

Despite the other students’ behavior, I loved being her student.  Every day we started class by writing journal entries in our notebooks, following prompts such as:

Write a mystery story in 20 minutes…

This prompted my very first real story.  It was bland and simple (something about a woman who lost her diamond necklace when she leaned against the window sill), but I lost all sense of reality as the magic of the words washed over me.  I was no longer tied to the boundaries of this world, but enjoyed the freedom of my imagination.  These prompts were the highlight of my days.  Prior to this, I hadn’t taken an interest in writing and always dreaded writing papers or spending time away from sports, but her journal prompts carried me away to another realm – the world of fiction.

Now, every time I sit down to write, whether I’m working on a piece of creative writing or an essay, I always think back to the sight of her snuggled up in bed with one of her treasured books, flashlight nearby.  With gratitude, I recall her sixth grade class, when she introduced me to my first love: WORDS. 

            ~

            She’s what I have always wanted to be.  Prayer warrior.  Humble servant.  Sacrificial lamb.  Sweet teacher.  Brilliant writer.  Epitome of beauty, her hazel eyes reflecting care.

            Those humble days are the lessons that shaped my faith.  For years, we had endured prosperity under the salary of my father, yet never once enjoyed freedom and peace.  That’s when she introduced me to writing and unlocked my prison cell, showing me a world I never knew.  When my dad left, I expressed so many emotions through words that writing became my own kind of prayers.  Mom showed me the insignificance of material possessions, the value of the pen, and the riches of relationships.  The bank account may have been empty, but her faith wasn’t.  She kept us afloat.  She and God. 

            One day I hope to carry out that same legacy, as a mother and writer.