"My worst
fear is coming true—I'm becoming my mother." That's the gist
of a playful caption on a friend's coffee mug. More and more lately
I remind myself of my mother, but this realization brings no feelings
of dread.
Our genetic
links are beyond doubt—the same nose (mine once cute and
"pug" now bears more of a resemblance to her less flattering "bulbous
nose"), the aging hair ("greyish brown" or "brownish grey," depending
on who's describing it), the body of sturdy stock ("perfect for
childbearing," someone once remarked; I took it as a compliment).
My only regret is that in addition to her physical traits, the
faith of my mother couldn't be transmitted to me, some specific
chromosome guaranteeing that I'd be the woman of God that she
is.
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Hers
is a private faith, not a showy display of religiosity. As in
all that she does, she lives out her faith in an understated way.
Her faith is simple, innocent, straight out of the Gospels. She's
the living version of the works of mercy—visiting the sick,
bringing food to the hungry, clothing the naked, instructing the
ignorant, praying for the living and the dead—not for her
own aggrandizement but for the sake of the Kingdom.
As schoolchildren
we were urged to dedicate all our written work to God. On the
righthand corner of our papers we'd neatly print the letters J.M.J.
(Jesus, Mary and Joseph) or A.M.D.G. (for the greater glory of
God). Those were routine gestures, often empty of meaning or motivation,
but my mother's life is one ceaseless A.M.D.G. Now that her children
are grown, she has the luxury of almost daily Mass. But even with
small children, homebound to care for them, she prayed her way
through the day, offering up disappointments and encouraging her
children to do the same, reminding us that greater good would
come of our temporary sadnesses, since not one sparrow fell to
the ground without God's being mindful of it.
Today,
as I watch my mother dedicating herself to her daily tasks at
home—changing a grandchild's diaper, peeling vegetables for
a family dinner, canning tomatoes from her garden—I hear
her contentedly humming to herself (my father calls it "purring")
and know that in her simple way she's at prayer. A woman happy
and blessed and secure in her faith in the Lord, my mother makes
her life a hymn to her creator, her soul magnifying the Lord,
her spirit always rejoicing in God her savior.
—From
the book Loving
the Everyday: Meditations for Moms
Elizabeth Bookser
Barkley is associate professor of English at the College of Mount
St. Joseph in Cincinnati, and is the mother of three teenage daughters.
She has also written Woman
to Woman: Seeing God in Daily Life (St. Anthony Messenger
Press).
