If you wonder where I get the steel in my spine or the set to my jaw when I’m ready to stand up for something, it’s from my mother.
I was not raised by a sweet, gentle, retiring woman. I was not raised by a mother who baked us cookies in an apron or who took us to nail salons for girls’ days out.
My mother is the kind of woman who chops wood by hand or with a chainsaw to heat her house. Whose favorite seat is in the summer on the lawnmower. Who can back up a horse trailer, a tractor, and a school bus. Who fell off the ladder painting the garage, broke her foot, and drove herself to the hospital with a stick shift car. She got pulled over on the way there, and the policeman gave her an escort to the ER. After she got treatment, she proceeded to wear out her walking boot by walking a few miles every day with a broken foot with her friend, Bessie. My mother is the woman who got run over by a tractor after brush-hogging the field and ended up with a broken leg. Don’t worry, she’s fine now; she just has a bionic femur now--all the stronger to walk those miles.
My mother is a fierce woman who loves fiercely. She set boundaries for us. She expects that her children act with integrity and respect. She taught us that it's OK to fail, as long as we've given an honest effort. She dusted us off after our failures and set us back to the path again. When the "evil coal-mining baron" neighbor abused his right-of-way over our farm, she used her savings account to fight him in court--because it was the right thing to do. She stands by her convictions and her quiet, strong, Mennonite faith. It’s a different thing to be hugged by a woman with calloused hands. It’s a different thing to recognize a mother’s love in the mowing of the lawn and the cleaning of the gutters, just as much as in the cooking of dinner.
My mother is a woman who cares for the helpless. She taught us the art of mothering the baby kittens that we found in the barn every year. One litter had two little ones that were born with missing toes and legs, because the umbilical cord was wrapped around the joints. We treated those tiny, tough little kitties just like the others--brought them into the house in a cardboard box in the evenings to “gentle” them and to give them milk. They grew up strong, but not gentle. We named them silly things like Marshmallow, but they were fearsome wee beasts, running around on their three legs for years, keeping the barn free of rodents. We nurtured them into wild independence.
My mother is the kind of woman who understands the circle of life with all its kindness and cruelty. She taught us to treat poison ivy by scratching open the blisters and pouring bleach into them. She taught us to treat our own splinters with a sharp knife. She knows that sometimes healing hurts. She birthed foaled, nursed orphan colts, and buried the broodmares on the same farm. She has seen her mother, father, and her husband all go home to glory while she stays on earth, caring for the rest of us.
My mother is the kind of woman who taught us to love those who need it and to stand on our own two feet. She taught us to do what needs to be done--cleaning the gutter, shoveling manure, standing up for the disadvantaged. She rolls up her sleeves every day and pitches in with her effort. Once in a while, a colleague or friend remarks that I am “not a woman to be reckoned with”. In those moments, I know it is because of the fierce love of a strong woman. In those moments, I know I am truly my mother’s daughter.
To all of the fierce, tough, take-no-prisoners kind of moms out there: Happy Mother’s Day!
