Precious Lessons
24 September 2006 | Faith/Spiritual | 2 Responses
Last Modified: 24 September 2006 @ 23:04
Mom
left Toronto early this morning for L.A. And right at the moment when
we hugged and kissed good-bye at the airport, it suddenly hit me how
much I missed her already.
The past 10 days were very special for us, because we rarely have
such a big block of time to spend together anymore. And unlike in
Singapore, when Mom’s so busy that us spending huge amounts of time
together meant stressful and frantic catching up of work for her, she
was truly relaxed in Toronto.
On the drive back from the airport today, I teared as I realized
just how much Mom has done for me during her visit. Every opportunity
she had, she was teaching me something even when we were fooling around
and laughing. About taking care of my health. About managing a home.
About being considerate to and loving my housemates. About work. About
faith. About life.
I cried even harder when I realized anew how much she must miss me,
think of me and worry for me when we’re apart. But she never ever tells
me that she’s worried about me, because she wants me to feel free to
try my own wings, and to discover for myself what she already believes
that I can do.
She told me that she’s been preparing to let go of me ever since I
was a baby, because she’d discerned from her own observation that most
parent-child relationship problems stem from a parent being unwilling
or unable to let go. So, though in different ways, she’d been
practising letting go of me ever since I was a child. She constantly
reminded herself that she must help me learn to exercise my own will
and make my own choices, rather than imposing her will in my life.
In the course of my life, I must have hurt my mother so many, many
times. Times when I lose patience with her. Times when I fail to
understand her. Times when I chose to spend time with friends or
activities so much that I neglect her needs. And I only just made the
startling realization today that other than gentle reminders to put God
first in my life, and to put others before myself, my mother
practically never complained. In fact, even with those gentle
reminders, it was always for somebody else. With regard to my conduct
towards her, she never complained, not even when I hurt her.
Once, when I was around 13 years old, I was so angry with my mother
for what I had perceived to be a deception, that I refused to speak to
her for a full 3 days. I was so angry and hurt that I was blind to her
own graver suffering in the matter, and to the fact that the ‘act of
deception’ had been completely for my protection.
It was only fairly recently that my mother brought that incident up
again. And even when she did, it was with such a light tone that there
wasn’t even a hint of reproach. But now when I think of it, my heart
wrenches with the knowledge of how much my action must have cut her.
How could it be that even in her own suffering she could give me space
to express my anguish in such a hurtful way? And when I misunderstand
her and reject her, she suffers silently with love and hope, believing
that God will somehow set things right. Inevitably, I eventually see
the truth. And every time it happens, I am amazed, humbled, and
inspired by her great love and faith.
It strikes me now, though, that my mother’s marvelous love for me is
yet still only a small and imperfect reflection of God’s perfect love.
The God who, as Father, sent His only Son to be rejected and murdered
by the very people He desired to save. The God who, as Son, loved us so
completely that He willingly chose to suffer and die for a people that,
even now, keeps rejecting Him. The God who loves me so much that He
allows me to go astray in my life so that I will learn that I truly
belong to Him, and that my heart is ever restless until it rests in Him
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