Years ago, over 25, a March day I think, I set out to drive to my mom’s house in Chicago. When it started to snow, Interstate 57 quickly became packed with snow and slick, really slick. Bitter cold winds were blowing across the open farm fields, blowing so hard that some semis were blown into the ditch. Traffic crept along at 5 miles an hour. Exit ramps were treacherous, so I couldn’t turn around. I couldn’t call anyone, no cell phones then. I was scared, white knuckles on the steering wheel…and I got angry. My mother’s a stickler for being on time…I was angry about the tongue lashing I was sure to get.
What should have been a 4 hour trip turned into a 10 hour ordeal. All that time I sharpened my tongue to answer every conceivable criticism for being late. I convinced myself that I could answer anything, answer whatever she might throw at me with a sharp, edgy comeback. So when I finally pulled into her driveway, I was ready for her...or so I thought. She came running at me, tears pouring down her cheeks, gave me a big hug, and sobbing, gasping for air, she said, “I thought something had happened to you.” I wasn’t ready for a mother’s love.
Scared, angry, defensive… Because we easily forget that we are loved, we set aside this weekend to thank God for His love through our mothers. “Now thank we all our God with hearts and hands and voices, Who wondrous things has done, in whom His world rejoices; Who from our mothers’ arms has blest us on our way with countless gifts of love and still is ours today.”
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