This isn’t going to be an easy Mother’s Day for a close friend of mine.  She lost hers recently and I can only imagine the sadness she’ll feel not being able to be with her mother to honor her on Sunday.

Actually, I can sort-of imagine what she’s feeling because I’ve thought about losing mine a million times since I was a kid.  Seriously, I know it’s weird, but I’ll sometimes close my eyes and pretend she’s not here to take my mind to that horrible place of a world without her to see if I could face it, see if I could still breathe.

It all started when I was in the first grade and I’d go out to the carpool line and watch for our paneled station wagon.  I can still remember that excited feeling I got in my stomach when I saw it, knowing my smiling, beautiful mother would be behind the wheel.  I couldn’t wait to see her.  No matter what had happened that day it didn’t mean a thing until I told her about it.  I had no idea that would still be the case 40 years later.

The bond I felt with my mother was so strong that one day in the 7th grade I was overcome with a feeling that something bad had happened to her.  I couldn’t focus on anything the teacher said until I went to the principal’s office and asked the secretary to call home so that I could hear my mother’s voice and make sure she was okay.  She was, of course.  And then, so was I.

I think that was probably the beginning of my life-long worry that I would lose my mom.  When she was just 23 years old she was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis and perhaps it wasn’t until the 7th grade that I actually understood the pain that she was living with every day—every minute.  It was perhaps then that I understood that her being the incredible mother she was took an extra effort that other moms didn’t have to give.  I had always, always known that she was the most special mother a girl could have, but perhaps it was then that I also realized what an amazing human being she is.

I know, I know, most people say that about their moms.  And my mother and I always laugh that we think our relationship is unique, that no other mother-daughter team could touch what we have.  (I have a sneaking suspicion that she’s had the same conversation with my sister and brother.)  But how could these relationships not be unique when we have suffered so much together?  When we have suffered so much and come out safely on the other side?  I sometimes joke about a friend of ours back in the ’80’s who said she quit watching Dallas on Friday nights;  she’d just call out to our house and find out what was going on.  That’s how tumultuous things were back then.  Funny now, I’m sure back then, not so much.

You see, you could name a human condition and chances are, my mother has suffered it.  I won’t recount it now, that’s her story to tell, but trust me, her life has been hard.  In fact, I truly cannot think of a person I know who has faced such pain, and not just physical, not just what you can see.

What choice do you have when life is hard?  You either deal with it and move on— better for it— deal with it and move on—bitter for it— or die.  My mom chose to deal with all that life has thrown at her with grace and dignity and courage.  Not once have I heard her utter a word of self-pity.  If anybody had a right to give up, give in to all that pain, it’s her.  And neither I, nor my sister or brother, would have blamed her.  It has been too much for any human being to withstand.  But she not only withstands it, she rises above it, day after day after day.

People are always telling my my mom–and me–that she is their inspiration.  The very fact that she lives in her own body—withered now from nearly 50 years of torture—and gets up every day (and happy to do so) is a testament to her indomitable will.  It is also a testament to faith.  You see, my mom doesn’t take any credit for the grace and courage with which she lives her life.  She’ll quickly tell you it’s all God.  He’s the One living in her who encourages her, makes her strong, gets her excited about the day.

I’ve had a tough year.  Many days I get up feeling not so excited about my day.  I”m a little embarrassed to say that because my first phone call each morning will be with my mom—my mom who won’t be able to get out of bed today, eat breakfast on her own, get herself dressed, walk to the mailbox, or hug a grandchild.  Yet, she’s the one who will encourage me.  Imagine that.

This Mother’s Day, I’ll give thanks to God, as I always do, that mine is still in the world, that I can still curl up on her bed next to her and smell her perfume, that I can still love on her, share my day with her, tell her my secrets.  I’ll honor my mother by trying to be half the woman she is.  Strong, courageous, and always, always, no matter what, excited about the gift of life.