A Homily for Mom

These past weeks, I have tried to be more faithful to my weekly visit to my mother every Sunday evening. She is 79 going on 80 and has Parkinson’s disease. Mercifully, her variety of Parkinson’s doesn’t involve tremors. But she is weak, weaker than I have ever seen her before. She can barely stand up by herself, easily loses balance, shuffles rather than walks, with the help of a cane. She often falls, I am told. I catch her sometimes just slumped forward in her chair, looking so tired. At times, I can barely understand her: inexplicably to me, she sometimes seems to lose even the strength to open her mouth to speak, and so mumbles responses to my questions. I have to guess what she is saying, and occasionally, like tonight, I really have to struggle to make out what she wants to communicate.

Last Sunday, she asked me to pray for her. I said I do, always. I do.

I wanted to share a homily I preached on her 75th birthday five years ago. It says a lot about what I feel when I pray for her.

Today, we give thanks to our loving God for the gift he has given us in Mommy, who came to this world 75 years ago. I did some calculations and I figured that Mom got married to Daddy at the age of 26, in February 1955. She gave birth to Atchi at the age of 27, so she has been a fulltime mother for 48 years out of her 75, 48 years that have not always been easy. That means two thirds of her life has been spent really living for us, her children. Two thirds of her life has been given to living out the difficult vocation of motherhood.

 

Our readings tonight help us appreciate the gift of our mother and her love for us.  You see, if you listened to the readings carefully, you will see that even God places enormous value on this precious thing called a mother’s love. In the first reading, he compares his own tender, faithful love to the love of a mother. When Israel complains that she has been forsaken, God says, No: “Can a mother forget her infant, be without tenderness for the child of her womb?” If you know how a mother loves, God tells Israel, you could never imagine me abandoning you. In the Gospel, Jesus is dying on the cross and looks upon his beloved disciple, so sorrowful and lost. And so he hands over to his closest friend the most valuable person in his life, his mother. It is as if Jesus is saying, “I have nothing more precious to give you than this woman who has loved me so much and will now love you in turn.” If God values a mother’s love so much, perhaps, this evening we too can try to appreciate this mother, our mother’s love for us.

In the brief time we have at this Mass, I just want to say two simple things in appreciation of Mom’s love for us: first, that it is a love that gives us a home; second, it is a love that has taught us to love.

First, I think Mom’s love gives us a home. What do I mean? Not just a physical home, our houses in Silencio and Acropolis. Recently I read a mother describing her feelings as she watched her young son sleep. This is what she wrote: 

            I sit on the edge of my son’s bed. His face is smooth with sleep. The glow of the night light stands vigil against the monsters that lurk beneath his table. As I stand up to leave, I feel my heart, pulled out of my breast, stretched to span the widening distance between us. Before he was born, I did not know how I could ever let him in. Now that I have, I don’t know how I will ever let him go.

I love those last two sentences, because they capture so perfectly a mother, our mother’s love: “Before he was born I did not know how I could ever let him in. Now that I have, I don’t know how I will ever let him go.” 

Mom carried each one of us siblings in her womb for nine months, but even after she let go of us to enter the world, I know she keeps each one of us in her heart. When she welcomed us into her womb, she welcomed our whole lives after that, with all its ups and downs, its joys and sorrows, into her own heart. They have become her ups and downs, her joys and sorrows for 48 years.

Mom often confides in me her worries and complaints about each of us. My answer has usually been: Mom, bahala na siya or bahala na sila. He or she is old enough. He or she has his or her own life. It’s only recently that I realized that this was very easy for me to say, because I am not a mother. While what I say is true, in a sense, you can never tell a mother to cut this ongoing care and concern for the lives of her sons and daughters from her heart. It’s like telling the sun not to rise or the sea not to rush to the shore. Whether it’s a little thing, like wondering whether I will have a jacket for Europe, or a big thing, like Paul’s tumor, I know Mom keeps our lives in her heart, and that when she prays, she brings each one of us to the Lord. That’s what I mean when I say, that Mom’s love gives us a home. It means that, in this world, we know we have a place where we will always belong. Despite the occasional tampuhan or misunderstandings, which are part of life, we have a home in her heart and prayers.

Second, I think Mom’s love has taught us how to love. What do I mean? Let me be concrete. When I see Atchi’s very real thoughtfulness in trying to get just the right pasalubong for each of us, or that same thoughtfulness in Dickie’s very careful wrapping of gifts and making of special Christmas tags, I think to myself:  they got this from Mom, who always thoughtfully made sure that when we grew up, we were always specially remembered on birthdays, on Three Kings, on Christmas. When I see Ako John generously providing Mikey with all the books and gadgets that will develop Mikey’s intelligence and talents, I think to myself: he got this from Mom, who made sure too that we grew up in a house full of good books, who made sure we got the best education, that we would develop our talents and gifts. 

When I see Peter or Franny taking the trouble to take their not always so well behaved kids out on trips out of town, to Tagaytay or Baguio or the provinces, I think to myself: they got this from Mom, who with Dad, took the trouble to fill our young minds and hearts with good memories, who would drive us when we were small to watch “The Littlest Angel” display in front of the old Coke building or the COD display in Cubao or brought us in the old station wagon to Baguio or to the beach. When I see Stevie buying food for us, and taking pains to get really good food and make sure there’s always more than enough, I think to myself: he got this from Mom, who made sure that we never knew hunger or want while we were growing up, who saw to it that we grew up with an always abundant table, and with such a rich variety of eatables in the house. 

When I see Paul facing his brain tumor with such quiet, uncomplaining courage and dignity, I think to myself: he got this from Mom, who has carried sickness for more than a decade without complaint or demands from others. Actually, when I see myself, trying to be a parent now to 54 seminarians, and I see my care for each one, and yet also my tendency to be strict and somewhat directive in what I feel they should be doing, I know too where I got that from!  The wonder of Mom’s love is that it has become unconsciously contagious, and it is her love, living in us with which we face life and the next generation.

A friend of mine had a poster in his office that said something like this: A parent’s love is there to give children roots and wings. I guess what I’ve been trying to say is that Mom has given us both: roots, a home in her heart and in her concern and prayers; wings, in our own ability to love and care for others, which we learned from her, and which we now take on our own very different life journeys.

Mom, tonight, at this Mass, in the presence of the Lord, we want to thank you for your very precious love, which is our home, and which is now our own capacity to love. And our prayer tonight is that you feel tonight that the love you have given us is being returned to you with such gratitude. Often, I know you feel we don’t show it enough, but tonight, please pay attention to all the little details, and to how much we all want to make this special for you, so that you know in your deepest heart that you are loved and appreciated by your children. Life is not perfect; this side of heaven, it will never be; we struggle with our different personalities and concerns, and we sometimes fight or seem to neglect one another; but tonight, I pray the Lord may make you know that your seventy five years of life are cherished and valued by us, and that we love you. May this knowledge give you the inner peace and the happiness you deserve after forty-eight years of mothering. Happy birthday, Mom, from all of us, with much love and prayer! 

October 3, 2003