So, I’ve decided to go back over my journals and take a trip down memory lane. Since writing is my lifeline and because I’ve done it for so long, one could probably surmise I’ve a lot of fodder to work with. The other day I chose a thin volume from 2006 and settled down to read, anxious to see where my mind was at. And somewhere in the middle, amidst all the suffering I was slowly working out, I came across a letter I had written to my mother.
I should mention that before I met Jesus in 2004, my life had become a wash from bipolar disorder and my writings reflected it: mangled thoughts and ideas scribbled haphazardly ran rampant on every page. But after my conversion the sea calmed, sailing smoothed and I could think clearly again. Although I was grateful to see this in the diary, the sadness I was still processing broke my heart - it takes a while to work out the kinks. Enter mom.
Standing at 4’11 and weighing in at petite, my mother is not exactly what you’d call Goliath. An immigrant from the Old Country, Anna Maria came to the US after marrying my American father in an arranged marriage. Scared but hopeful, she devoted herself to raising my brother and I as best she could and though we’ve had our ups and downs and all arounds, I grew up spoiled and deeply loved. I still remember the beautiful dresses and sweaters she would knit me that I proudly sported in birthday and Christmas snaps.
Though well intentioned, my mother nonetheless ruled with an iron fist which clashed with my deeply independent nature. This, coupled with a few other events, led me to “fly the coop” immediately following High School and soon after, the disorder hit. When I reached the city I escaped to, I began rubbing elbows with danger and living a wild and fast paced life. I soon forgot my mother and everything familiar I’d ever known, eventually losing myself.
As life fell apart, I began crying out to her in frantic phone calls and though she couldn’t do anything other than console me, as I wouldn’t come home, she nevertheless hung in there. As the situation worsened, my mothers friends cautioned her to ignore my calls, as they regarded me a lost cause, but with a compassion that would have melted glaciers, she kept sending me care packages, letters and keeping in touch with the doctors that were trying to help me. I eventually did come home and let’s say I took the long road, but back to my journal.
As life fell apart, I began crying out to her in frantic phone calls and though she couldn’t do anything other than console me, as I wouldn’t come home, she nevertheless hung in there. As the situation worsened, my mothers friends cautioned her to ignore my calls, as they regarded me a lost cause, but with a compassion that would have melted glaciers, she kept sending me care packages, letters and keeping in touch with the doctors that were trying to help me. I eventually did come home and let’s say I took the long road, but back to my journal.
As I reread what I’d written to my mother, I realized that amidst all the confusion and turmoil of those times, it was her unrelenting love like that always returned to, like a sunflower craning towards the sun. Through her virtues I returned to innocence of that little girl who wore those knit dresses.
