Mi Madre

I didn't grow up speaking Spanish, but somewhere along the way, I did start calling Mom, "Mi Madre." I meant it as a term of endearment, but the more I called her that, the more I came to attach meaning to the words: "Mi," mine, and "Madre," mother. That last word is so limiting. My mother became my mother by birthing me, but past that, she has done/is so much more.

Growing up, my mother fed me. She helped clothe me. She cooked for me, tended to me when I was sick, encouraged me, prayed for me, schooled me. She taught me about Jesus. She taught me about life. She read to us the classics (think Les Miserables by Victor Hugo), as well classics to her (C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, and the like). She chauffeured us. When the time came (and I frustrated my dad nearly to death), she taught me to drive.

When I was away from home, she wrote me letters. She master-minded a lot of my birthday, Christmas, and other celebration gifts (and still does). When I visited, even as a married person, she let me rest.

My mom is strong, resilient, sturdy. She's endured a lot. She endures a lot. She still prays. She still encourages. She's a role model, and a mentor.

Words, English or otherwise, cannot really contain the wonder that is my mother. So on Mother's Day, I guess the best I can do is just give thanks that she is "mi madre," a gift from God to me to show me just a little more of God and His infinite, immeasurable love. If her love is any indication, the love of God has got to be pretty great!