A Letter to Mom
Recently, I lost my mom.
As Mother’s Day approaches, I’ve found myself thinking about all the things I wish I had said. The letter below is something I wrote recently; not just to honor her memory, but to encourage you, too. Don’t wait to share what’s on your heart with the people who matter most.
May this serve as a small reminder to cherish, to reflect, and, when you can, to speak the words that shouldn’t go unsaid.
“Dear Mom”
This is the letter I never got to give you. It’s the tribute I wish I would have read to you last Mother’s Day. Hopefully, I’ll do better for Dad; meaning, I’ll give him his tribute while he’s still alive.
The first thing that comes to mind when I reflect on your life, Mom, is polio. As a kid, I just accepted that it was normal for someone to walk with crutches. You were Mom. You were normal. You were amazing. You made me plum jelly sandwiches with butter because I was allergic to peanut butter. You did the laundry, cooked the meals, washed the dishes—then did the laundry again. You were the traditional Wife and Mom. And though I didn’t say it often enough… I admired you.
To be honest, I admire you more and more.
You were a polio survivor, but you never used that as an excuse to avoid things that were difficult or painful. I remember us going to the beach as a family when Tim and I were little. Dad would bring the canvas raft, and we’d kick our way out to where the waves were breaking, riding them all the way to shore. I had no idea then that Dad couldn’t swim! And every Saturday, we went to Knob Hill Beach. Knob Hill! All those stairs! We’d park on the corner of Broadway and Knob Hill, then walk down—and later UP—all those stairs. (If Tim and I were good, we got Foster’s Freeze ice cream on the corner of Knob and PCH, parked in that gravel lot!) But Mom, you made that climb, down and up, without complaint. It never dawned on me how hard that must have been for you—because you never once complained. Not once did you take the easy way out.
I remember trips to Big Bear—staying at Thundercloud, going to the trout pond, catching fish like pros. Mini golf, arcades on the main drag. Lots of walking. And you kept going.
Though you didn’t always say it aloud, I know you loved Tim and me. Your actions spoke volumes. You showed a kind of love that many in your generation didn’t often express with words—but you showed it every day. You did so much that when I went off to college… I didn’t quite know how to survive! Even as your body began to suffer from the long-term effects of polio, you kept on loving us through tireless action.
I remember talking to you about eternity. As a kid, the idea of “forever and ever and ever” would really trouble me. One day, I asked you how old I would be in Heaven. Would I be an old man—the age I died? That thought didn’t help my image of paradise. But I’ll never forget your answer:
“You’ll be the age you were happiest on earth. That’s how old you’ll be in Heaven.”
Thanks, Mom.
I know that’s not a theologically sound answer—but for a nine-year-old, it was perfect. It got me through a lot of long nights.
After I became a Christian, we had some tough conversations about “tradition vs. Scripture.” You clung tightly to the Catholic roots you were raised with—and raised us with. And Mom, I loved being Catholic for the first 18 years of my life. I loved that Monsignor McCarthy had us listen to Jesus Christ Superstar in CCD. That was so cool!
But the rock opera ended with a cross—not an empty tomb. I needed more than a crucified Jesus. I needed a Risen Savior. So I left.
Mom, I know my decision to be baptized again hurt you. It was the first choice I made that I knew would wound you. It may have been the first time I chose God over the opinions of others. You always said, “We Catholics ARE Christians.” And you were right. From where I sit now, I apologize for letting some of my evangelical dogma get in the way of all the core truths that Catholics and Protestants share. In my youthful zeal, I focused too much on our differences. Though those differences are real, for my approach—I’m sorry.
But I will see you again.
We had another important conversation about 14 years ago. You were starting to lose your ability to communicate clearly. Your body and mind were slowing down. But you let me read the Bible to you. We read stories you hadn’t heard in that way before—Jonah, David and Goliath, the miracles of Jesus.
But the story that mattered most was about Mary, Martha, and Lazarus.
“I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies. Do you believe this?”
Jesus asked Martha.
And Mom, do you remember what you said when I asked you that same question?
You said, “I do.”
That’s all Jesus asked of Martha. That’s all I asked you. And because of your answer—not because of all the ways you sacrificially cared for Dad, Tim, and me—I will see you again. And I’ll tell you then what I’m telling you now:
Thank you for being my Mom. I love you.
Whitewater Rafting Trip – June 22–23
Join us for two days of adventure, brotherhood, and growth in Kernville. Come solo or bring your men’s group as we tackle the rapids and connect deeper.
Cost is $180 (includes rafting + lunch).
Spots are limited—register now at swordandshovel.com/white-water-rafting for full details.
5 Things Shared
Recently, I was invited to a gathering of men for dinner at a local pub—about 30 to 35 in total. At the end of the evening, our gracious host stood and asked the “older men” in the room to share one piece of wisdom they wish they’d had in their tool belt when they were in their 30s.
Well... I love that kind of question! And the atmosphere created over the sharing of fine food and drink had “set the table” for some robust, testosterone-filled wisdom from the mature men in the room.
Here are a few nuggets that were shared (or should have been!):
What people think of me is none of my business
I’ve lived much of my life paying far too much attention to the opinions of others. Proverbs says, “The fear of man will prove to be a snare.” I’ve been sadly leveraged by the approval/rejection syndrome—at times making unwise and cowardly decisions. I might get this saying tattooed on my forearm.
The grass is greener where you water it
This is the one I shared at the dinner. It’s the antidote to coveting. When you invest time and energy into caring for what’s already yours, it begins to look a lot like what you’ve been wishing for.
Humility always carries the day
Five different men in the Bible say this in one form or another—David, Solomon, Peter, James, and Jesus. My ego is not my amigo. Pride comes before a fall. God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble. Humility always carries the day.
Obedience precedes understanding
I used to believe I’d be obedient if I could be convinced the action required was in my best interest. But in recovery, in cardiac rehab, in working out—I’ve learned this truth. I’m not the best CEO of my life. As the psalmist says, “I have more understanding than the elders because I obey your precepts.”
This year I’ll be surprised, but God won’t
I start every year with this reminder. It takes my breath away. Brings me to my knees in prayer and worship. No matter what happens this year—or today—God knew. And He meets me in the moment. That brings deep comfort in the face of the unknown.
Do any of these resonate with you? Got one of your own? I’d love to hear it.