Mother's Day Tribute Part 1

I have many stories about members in my family. Some I have shared in the short life of this blog. In the spirit of Mother's Day I wanted to share some stories that I feel were significant in how I will remember my Mother in the different stages of my life. After thinking of all the possible stories I determined that most were similar, a tribute to my mother's consistency of being awesome, and others would probably be much more embarrassing than she deserves.

One in particular is much too embarrassing for her and I, it is at least a PG-13 story-maybe even R- and My Brother and father, who were present at the time, get way too much joy from my extreme discomfort for me to give them satisfaction of reliving it. So that being said my first story I feel is an excellent example of how my Mother never allowed me to feel alone in any aspect of my life, whether it was joy, sorry or guilt my Mother shared those feelings with me, never letting me go it alone.

I was less than 7 but more than 4 years old. The church, and by extension various members of my family, had returned from a missions trip in Mexico a few weeks prior. On this particular Sunday night there was what I thought was called "super supper" when in all likelihood my mind had noticed a similarity between the real name-"soup and supper"- and something that sounded way cooler.

This Super Supper was no ordinary Super Supper. It was the day when those who returned from the missions trip had the opportunity to share there experiences with the members of the church who attended. I remember three of the four walls were lined with tables and the tables were covered with displays. Some hosted pictures of the children they encountered, and projects they worked on, others had goofy pictures of the team members experiencing the adventure of over a thousand miles with 50 teenagers and poor hygiene.

The tables that attracted me, and every other child there, were the tables that hosted the souvenirs. Do remember that when you were between 4 and 7 things purchased in Mexico were exotic and fantastic. In fact when many years later I attended the same missions trip as a Junior in high school the only purchases I intended to make were tacos from a taco stand called Tacos Perez. It coincidentally was one of the dozen or so places you could eat in Tijuana and not be stricken with debilitating diarrhea, or so my experiences have taught me. The point being items from Mexico lose there luster as you get older but when you were a child they were as incredible as a Disneyland pen.

One exhibit caught my eye. There was a pair of maracas. I had never heard of anything by that name, and therefore knew nothing of what to do with or how to play such an instrument with such a name. I, in fact, had spent some valuable time playing a maraca as an infant and toddler, only i knew it as a rattle. I was quite good, or so my experiences have taught me.

My mind, still unsure if girls were yucky or not, determined that they best way to play such an instrument was to hit it against the table.

Now would be a good time to address how and when Mexican souvenirs lose their appeal. They're cheap. You usually learn this after your first trip down there when you buy the fake Oakley glasses for 5 bucks when they're over $100 at home. You think you got a steal and that nobody will be able to tell the difference and you don't even get the chance to try and put it past people because they break before you can even get home. My first pair fell apart on my face when I laughed in a manner the glasses deemed too extreme for its existence.

Needless to say the maracas were made with the same spirit as the Oakley's. They crumbled like sand. I remember my face began to burn and I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. My mind, being what it was, told me to run away and never speak of this to anyone. My mind also assured me that none of the 100 or so people present, the 15 within a few yards of me, nor the 5 directly behind me in line saw what I had done, and that nobody would ever be able to figure out that it was me.

It was the next week during the day, so I must have been in Kindergarten. My mind must have betrayed me because I confessed to the whole thing with little pressure from my mother. I remember feeling so terrible about breaking the Maraca. Worse off the Maracas had belonged to a pastor at the church, David Case.

Perhaps I thought I could trust my Mother with such incriminating information and that I could now go along with my life without having to burden myself with such guilt. I was wrong. That afternoon my Mother took me down to the church and walked me into David's office. I did not want to go. I remember thinking how cool I thought that Maraca was and that I would be so upset if that was mine and somebody had broken it. I looked my mother through the tears cascading down my cheeks and said, "I don't want to do it Mommy, I don't want to do it."

This is where things get serious. This is what stands out to me most about my Mother and is the best example of Love that a Mother can show her child.

My Mom replied, "Neither do I." She was crying even more than I as she guided me into David's office. I can not recall what I said to David, what I do remember was not being afraid anymore. My mother stood next to me and continued to cry. Her tears comforted me. Each one told me how much she loved me. No matter how dark of a place I found myself in I knew from that day forward without a doubt that my Mother would be there with me if I asked her to. While it might not seem like much to others it meant the world to me. I love you Mom.



Keep an eye out for Part Two later this week.