The Mom Episode

It is very, very difficult to know where to begin when talking about my mother. Today is her birthday, and I felt you should know that, because if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t even try to put the debt I owe her into words. I’ve got no fancy way to say it, ladies and gentlemen, so I’ll just put it out there: I owe Marie Allen everything. Absolutely everything.

It worked well for Caroline, so I’ll continue the format of listing off memories that spring to my mind when I think about “the momster” (as she is affectionately called).

-Little known fact: my love of movies probably comes from my mom. Very few people, including her, would have believed this a few years ago, and with good reason. Ever since the night my mother saw George Romero’s “Night of the Living Dead,” then woke up screaming in the middle of the night, she had more or less decided that hardcore cinema appreciation would be left to someone else. She reserved herself to a strict diet of cinema: happy endings, no children in danger, no scary scenes. Case closed.

But then her youngest son started caring deeply about movies. Without even the slightest prompting from him, she decided that now she’d see a wider array of films: intense movies, action movies, scary movies (within reason), and even (gasp) movies with bittersweet finales. I really had nothing to do with it; one day I turned around, and mom was calling dad a “sissy” because he wouldn’t come watch Christopher Nolan’s “Insomnia” with her (he did eventually, and he loved it).

This is a defining characteristic of my mother: she takes the concerns of those close to her and makes them her own. Movies became appealing to her because they mattered to me, and that extra push helped mom discover that all along she had a rigorous understanding of good plot structure, a keen eye for the minutia of screen acting, and a honed taste for good cinematography. You want to see proof? Ask my mother why she didn’t like a movie, or why she did. You will get the most educated, thoughtful and incisive twenty-second review you’ve ever heard.

-The story of the bear in the park is now infamous, but it bears (ha!) repeating. The quick and dirty goes like this: while on a family camping trip, my mother became aware that a bear was entering our camp. Without even blinking, she threw my sister into the trunk of our minivan, then roared out towards the gigantic wild mammal in an attempt to draw its attention away from the rest of the family. The truth was, she couldn’t find me (I was in the van), and Brady and dad were too big for her to shove them in a cupboard, so she instantly concluded it was necessary to put herself in the line of fire first. I think the message of this story explains itself.

-I know this one sounds stupid, but it makes me laugh every time. Most of you know that Marie Allen is a champion of women’s rights, and takes a vigorous yet loving stand against anyone who would keep them from total equality with men. In her words, it’s a cause that “the Lord has laid on my heart.”

But I remember one night many years ago, when I was kept up into the wee hours by the romantic troubles that a high schooler is apt to have. My mother, who also couldn’t sleep, found me sitting in the living room, and sat down to patiently hear what was on my mind. After I had whined and whined and whined about the affections of some girl, my mother offered me a glass of water and gave me this advice:

“Honey. Jealousy is for girls. That’s not what men do.”

Even at the time, I laughed so hard my sides hurt. Understand that if anyone but the most ardent feminist I know had told that to me, I wouldn’t be willing to automatically add the necessary grain of salt. But it was my mother. And rather than pander to me, she knew it was time to kick my rear end a little bit, so she gave me a healthy little dose of winking shame. The crazy thing is, it worked: I went right to bed, and the next day I found myself in better control of my emotions. Like it says in Calvin and Hobbes: “mothers know everything.”

-All right, but a serious one now. One of the most incredible things about my mom is her relationship with Christ. All of us who are close to her know that the Lord loves that woman something fierce, and sometimes we feel as if we’re just there to bask in the refracted glow. Mom once told me that when she was younger, she felt a little like the middle child in her family, so she turned to God to make her feel special and loved. “And you know what I discovered?” she told me, “When you let Him, and only Him, lift you up, that feeling never goes away. If you get it from other people, it ebbs and flows. But the Lord is always there.”

He is indeed. The seriousness of her relationship with the Big Guy can be felt, eminating out of her wherever she goes. Some people get put off by it, some people are drawn to it, but it can never be denied that the Lord walks with my mother everywhere. Her connection with him is as strong as any I’ve ever seen with anyone.

I think a large part of why that happens is because my mom was made to be a mother, and she embraces that calling completely. Her joy, her happiness and her hopes are all rested in helping her loved ones and her neighbors, never in glorifying herself. I have never known someone who so honestly desires the best for others. And of course, in one of life’s delicious ironies, the Lord rewards her selflessness by blessing her personally far past her own expectations.

As a closing thought, let me give you an example of this:

One night, my family gathered around a table to play some poker (true story). Brady, Caroline, Dad and I were all competing fiercely, but my mother was folding nearly ever hand, smiling pleasantly and informing us that she’d rather we do well. Several times after losing expensive wagers, my mother would try to float me loans from her own pile before Caroline would smack her hand and demand that she play by the rules.

My mother did not like this. She just wanted us all to do well.

Finally, on an “all or nothing” last hand, my brother coerced mom into staying in the game until the end. Brady proudly displayed a fairly high two-pair, eliciting groans of defeat from his siblings and his father. Then he turned to look at mom, who innocently laid down enough face cards to fill Buckingham Palace. “Um, is this good?” she asked.

Brady’s eyes bulged out. Mom claimed the entire pot and won the game. “Of course,” I remember thinking, “The Lord loves my mother.”

And even as we were walking out, she was still trying to give the whole thing to Caroline and I, insisting that we had “played very well” and should be rewarded.

I love you mom. Happy Birthday!