Because My Mother Raised Me

This is meant to be a small tribute to my mom on this special day.  I find that it encompasses only a small fraction of what I appreciate and admire about her.  As much as I sometimes enjoy writing, when I try to put into words the positive impact that my mom has had on me, I find myself overwhelmed.  I begin again and again only to realize that no words I string together are able to adequately express the depth of gratitude and awe I feel at the woman she is and the service she has rendered me throughout my life.  She is a choice daughter of God who has worked hard to live up to His expectations.  She has taught me that although none of us are perfect, we can all be perfected in Him.  From her I  know that our offerings can be sanctified and made beautiful through the Atonement.  Because of my mom, I celebrate my own role of motherhood with confidence and joy rather than the guilt and discouragement so many of us are prone to feel on this day.  Thanks Mom!  I love you!

Earlier this year I wrote about my childhood faith and testimony being a gift that I received from my mom.  On this mother's day I want to expound on that.

On the surface, I consider myself to very much be my father's daughter.  He taught me to think critically, to question the world around me and create my own conclusions, and to puzzle through questions until I found solutions.  At least that is what I gleaned from the exposure he constantly provided with conversations where he would always play devil's advocate, the games that he would play allowing me to win only when I earned it (which wasn't often against him) and the puzzles we would do together on holidays.  It was my dad who fashioned my mind and the way I perceived and processed the thoughts and ideas of the world, but it was my mom who provided the topics I would ponder.

I mentioned the music selection my mom would deliberately and selectively expose me to.  As an adult I learned more about the faith and prayers that went into her finding the record/tape player and the tapes that she would play for me at night.  (Maybe she'll share that story in writing with me someday and I can post it here.)  I can well remember her cleaning off a place in her hall closet - the closet that kept the linens and medical supplies: much needed space in our small home, and devoting an entire shelf the the new stereo.  There were two speakers and I remember her drilling through the wall so she could run the wiring - one speaker went into each of the two bedrooms.  Night after night we would fall asleep listening to music filled with faith and testimony.  In the mornings, the music would fill our rooms again, welcoming us to the new day.  With laughter, I remember the dream I had of the school "bad-boy" standing on top of elementary school swaying to the music as he led the entire student body in song, "We believe in God, the Eternal Father, and in His Son Jesus Christ, and in the Holy Ghost".  My mom had turned on the tape that had musical renditions of the Articles of Faith and I had fallen back asleep.  But as much as that memory brings a smile of humor to my face, it also tugs my heart with the reminder that my mom providing me with this music is how I came to know and consider some of the most basic principles of the gospel.

Another tape that I would listen to often, as I lay in the dark on the bottom bunk in my bedroom, had a song by Janice Kapp Perry (a favorite of my mom's even before so many of her songs became a part of our children's song book).  The words rang out, "Heavenly Father, are you really there?  And do you hear and answer every child's prayer.  Some say that Heaven is far away.  But I feel it close around me as I pray."  One night in particular those words echoed around in my young mind.  "Heavenly Father, are you really there?"  And that was the night my testimony began.  I approached it with the mind that my father had fashioned.  I used logic and reason, going back and forth with questions like, "What are the odds that of all the people in the world, I just happened to be born into a situation where I am being taught God's truth?  Aren't there lots of people out in the world who believe in different things?"  I remember thinking, "If I had been born on the opposite side of the world, would I believe that cows were holy?"  I really tried to break away from believing in things because it was what I had always been taught, and determine what was actually true.  And in a very childish conclusion, I decided that even though it would be very foolish to live a life of religion if God didn't really exist, that no one would ever be able to prove my mistake until after this life was over, and if there wasn't any "after" then maybe it was just "better to be safe than sorry".  So it was with that silly thought that I determined I would go forward in my life accepting the premise of God's existence, looking for opportunities to increase my confidence in that understanding.  

My parents continued to teach me and gave me both knowledge and experience upon which to derive a testimony.  From my dad I remember family home evening lessons about repentance, the plan of salvation, Adam and Eve etc.  I remember scripture study discussions about integrity and obedience and faith.  I recall my dad sighing in exasperation (sighing might be a mild word to describe his frustration) and looking past the giggling children, some standing on their heads while others pushed each other back and forth and telling my mom it was pointless.  But she has always been a woman of faith.  She encouraged him to continue on in his teaching and promised that it would be fruitful. 

Indeed it was.  Years later, as my family began yet another goal to read scriptures together, I remember coming to a particular verse and rolling my eyes.  I knew where dad would stop.  I knew what he would say. I knew the "lesson" that would be taught from those very verses.  And then I caught my breath.  Because even though this was an old lesson for me, I understood that this knowledge was mine only because my parents had taught me.  I realized that for my sister, twelve years younger than me, that this was not an old redundant lesson, but a new education as she was being exposed to the scriptures.

My parents worked in a beautiful harmony to teach me the gospel.  My mom sustained, supported and encouraged my dad as he gave us gospel instruction and education.  And then my mom, whose life we saw day in and day out as she stayed at home to provide us with meals, clean clothes and a pleasant home, translated that knowledge into experience.  She showed us how to make faith a reality in our daily lives.  I remember waking up and finding her on her knees every morning.  We quickly learned not to disrupt her until her prayers were finished. I remember passing through a room and seeing her, with her scriptures in hand, studying quietly the words of the Lord.  And I observed her throughout her life, facing challenging and heart-wrenching circumstances with courage and confidence in her loving Father in Heaven.  Because my mother raised me, I know that I can face any difficulty with optimism and strength.  Through the things she exposed me to as a child and the example of her life, she taught me that with God, nothing shall be impossible (Luke 1:37).