There were a few different books I had planned to write about this week, along with some thoughts on current events and politics, but with Sunday being Mother’s Day, those subjects can wait for now. It seems like the right time to write about mothers instead.
I should probably begin by admitting that I am not really qualified to write a proper tribute to motherhood. A poet, philosopher, psychologist, or perhaps a pastor would likely be far better equipped to explain the remarkable bond between a mother and child. Still, as I’ve grown older, I’ve come to appreciate motherhood in ways I never fully understood when I was young.
The curious thing about aging is that perspective changes. You begin to look differently at family, mortality, sacrifice, and love. Brenda and I are both watching our mothers navigate the challenges that come with growing older. While living a long life is certainly a blessing, it also brings health struggles, uncertainty, and difficult days. Yet even while dealing with those challenges, our mothers never stop being mothers.
Brenda’s mom still worries constantly about Brenda and her sisters, her grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. My own mother continues to care for my father through his health issues while still trying to mother me and my brother, despite the fact we are both long past childhood. I think one of the great realizations of adulthood is finally understanding that moms never stop being moms. That instinct simply never leaves them.
One of the only truly good presents I ever gave my mother was a sketch of Abraham Lincoln as a child with his mother. Underneath it was a quote attributed to Lincoln: “I sure was a lucky kid to have the mother I did.”
All these years later, I’m fairly certain Abraham Lincoln never actually said those words. Most likely, the artist made it up entirely. But whether Lincoln said it or not, the sentiment has always felt absolutely true to me. I really was lucky to have the mother I did.
That doesn’t mean I always appreciated her properly.
Like most boys growing up, I spent plenty of years frustrating and aggravating my mother. She insisted on knowing where I was when I went out with friends. I preferred not to provide detailed updates on my whereabouts. She insisted I sit down and do my homework. I preferred sitting there pretending to do homework without actually doing it.
When I was in high school and thought I was clever enough to sneak back into the house after curfew, my mother would sometimes sit patiently in my room waiting for me to return so she could catch me red-handed. In fairness to my learning curve, it only took a couple of those experiences before I realized I wasn’t going to outfox my mother when it came to breaking the rules.
Mom baked cookies not only for me, but seemingly for half the neighborhood and all my friends. In fact, it is entirely possible that if not for my mother’s baking, I may not have had any friends at all growing up. Her cookies were highly persuasive. Before any of us had driver’s licenses, she also became the unofficial chauffeur for freshman basketball players and teenagers needing rides home. Looking back now, I suspect some of my friends weren’t even interested in the ride — they were just hoping my mom had snacks in the car.
The older I get, the more I realize my mother epitomized giving of oneself for the betterment of others. Logically speaking, she probably should have given up on me a few times along the way, but she never did. Because of a mother’s love, patience, and persistence, I eventually became at least a somewhat decent human being. I’m biased, of course, but I think my mom did a pretty great job raising me and my brother.
At the same time, I also realize my mother isn’t the only amazing mother in the world.
One of the dumbest debates in sports is arguing about the GOAT — the greatest of all time. People endlessly debate Michael Jordan versus LeBron James or Joe Montana versus Tom Brady, and the truth is nobody can ever definitively prove who was the best. It’s a pointless argument. Greatness should simply be appreciated when you see it.
I think motherhood works the same way.
Of course I think my mom was wonderful — maybe even the greatest ever — but I also know my aunts were wonderful mothers to my cousins. My Aunt Mary Lou was practically a second mother to me growing up. I’ve had friends with incredible moms. I’ve watched former coworkers become amazing mothers. I now watch my daughters-in-law doing remarkable work raising children of their own. I’ve seen former students and former softball players, people I still think of as kids, become loving and capable mothers themselves.
Sometimes when I see all of that, I think of Louis Armstrong singing, “…and I think to myself, what a wonderful world.”
Motherhood may truly be one of the forces holding civilization together. The world has always had problems, and we certainly have plenty of them today, but how much worse would this world be if biology, chemistry, psychology — and perhaps God Himself — had not hardwired maternal instinct into mothers?
Mothers shape us. They guide us. They sacrifice for us. They forgive us. They worry about us long after we think we no longer need worrying about. And in many cases, they love us even when we probably don’t deserve it.
So this weekend, I want to say thank you to my own mom for everything she has done for me throughout my life. I love you, Mom.
And to all the mothers out there trying every day to raise good sons and daughters in a world that often seems to work against your best efforts — thank you. The work you do matters more than words can properly express.
Maybe if all of us paid just a little more attention to what our mothers taught us, this world would become a little better place.
That’s the Perspective from Petenwell this week.
Until next Friday,
Chad
Two mothers and a father.