WHO IS MY MOTHER?
Life is hard for someone who has grown up without love or affection. I know I am not the only one who has experienced the loneliness that comes from being deprived of a healthy family life. I can remember watching my friends interact with their parents and the signs of affection they freely gave to one another; it was so different from having a mother and father who never told me they loved me, gave me a kiss, or even a hug.
I talked very little when I was young, perhaps because I knew I couldn’t trust my parents. I was no older than five when my mother broke my heart. This is embarrassing, and I have never told anyone this before, but maybe it will help someone to hear it.
I had an “unfortunate accident” (that’s all I will say) in the bathroom and I begged my mother not to tell my father about it. She promised she wouldn’t, but as soon as my father came home from work they sat down at the kitchen table and she did. They had a good laugh at my misfortune as I stood there feeling so betrayed. I never confided in my mother again, not once.
Perhaps you have seen the movie Apollo 13? In it Tom Hanks plays astronaut Jim Lovell and there is a scene that brought tears to my eyes. When things were going very wrong for the mission, Lovell’s family went to see his mother to let her know. She said, “Are you scared? Well, don’t you worry, honey. If they could get a washing machine to fly, my Jimmy could land it.” Why did this hit me so hard? When I became a follower of Christ (definition of a Christian,) I knew I had to let others know the joy that is found in a relationship with Jesus. Like Moses, I speak poorly, so I write and when the local newspaper printed the first of what would become many letters to the editor that I wrote, I was elated. I called my mother to tell her and she got angry with me and said, “Why don’t you keep your opinions to yourself, nobody wants to hear what you have to say.” I said I was sorry, I thought you might be happy for me. And I felt like the five year old from so many years ago.
When my mother was in her seventies she asked me if I held it against her that she “roughed me up” a little when I was young. I could see that she didn’t feel bad about it, but she was getting older and worried that I wouldn’t be there for her. If it had been an apology, I would have told her no, but it wasn’t so I didn’t answer. She used to beat me, but not for something I had done. If I was outside, she would call me to come in when she was in a rage about something and I would. Maybe she thought it was okay because I would never cry. Somewhere along the line I got smart and would run away and not come home until after other people were around. Such a strange way to have to grow up.
I have something else that I would like to share with you today. When I was almost thirteen I graduated grammar school and in the fall I started high school. I tried out for the swimming team and came in first in one of the heats, but I needed to get a note from a doctor saying I was fit to participate.
I went to my family doctor and he kept listening to my heart. He said I would need to see a cardiologist and to do so my father had to drive me there. We didn’t speak on the way. I don’t remember what was involved, but I do remember being hooked up to an EKG. After awhile he sat down with us and said there was a problem with my heart and that I shouldn’t do anything strenuous.
Because it was sinking in very slowly, I asked if this meant that I couldn’t be on the swimming team and he said I couldn’t. I thought for awhile and asked if I could play ball with my friends on the street and again he said no, I couldn’t. He realized I wasn’t getting it and finally told me that any strenuous activity could cause heart failure. Plain language that I understood. In 1960 there wasn’t much that could be done for a bad heart.
My father never asked any questions and we didn’t talk on the way back. When we got home, he went in and I went to where my friends were playing and I told them what had happened. About two weeks passed and my parents never brought it up and neither did I. I have never felt so alone.
My friends were playing touch football and I remember saying to myself, if I’m going to die then I’m going to die, and I went over and told them to get me in the game. They looked over at my house and saw my mother and father on the stoop, and I told them again to get me in the game so they did.
After awhile I forgot all about this. Then later when I was in the Navy, I tried out for Officer Candidate’s School but I failed the physical and they told me it was something with my heart. I was sent to the veterans hospital for tests but they didn’t give me any results. Some time later I was called back and saw the same doctor from my last visit and he said he had good news for me. Apparently they weren’t too familiar with what they were seeing in the EKG. It turned out that what I had was called infantile wave patterns. I was told that a child’s heart beats differently than an adult and for some people (like myself) the patterns don’t change until they are in their 20’s or 30’s.
Let’s fast forward about another twenty years to when it happened again. My doctor sent me for tests on my heart and when he got answers from the cardiologist he told me that there wasn’t anything wrong with my heart. I asked him if it was infantile wave patterns. It shocked him that I was familiar with that term, but then I told him about the past events.
I wonder if I am still young at heart?
“While Jesus was still talking to the crowd, his mother and brothers stood outside, wanting to speak to him. Someone told him, ‘Your mother and brothers are standing outside, wanting to speak to you.’
He replied to him, ‘Who is my mother, and who are my brothers?’ Pointing to his disciples, he said, ‘Here are my mother and my brothers. For whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother.’”
Matthew 12: 46-50