My Hero

It was during kindergarten that I first remember her standing up for me in a way that might have embarrassed other kids.  I was an introverted bundle of nerves that had somehow managed to make a few friends only to find myself in a lunch period with none of them.  She came to the school and talked to the principal to request my schedule be changed.  Some would call me spoiled for that; as though she felt I was so special that I deserved to be able to choose my schedule while the other kids were blindly assigned.  But some of the friendships I forged that year lasted to this very day.  And I know I have her to thank for that.

For the entirety of my life, she's been accused of spoiling me.  Of being overprotective.  Of giving me special treatment.  Of coddling me.  Sheltering me.

I say she's the reason I'm still alive.

This website is called "Searching for Heroes" for a reason.  I chose the title because true heroes are hard to come by these days.  Police officers are beating their prisoners.  Children are being molested by religious leaders.  Protagonists in movies and TV shows are unrepentant murderers, drunks, womanizers, and thieves.  Video games like Grand Theft Auto center around criminal activities.  Morality is no longer "in" - rejected by a society bored of chivalry and consumed by a culture that revels in self-adulation.  Indeed, real heroes are hard to come by.

Yet were I to be asked for my definition of a hero, I'd point my finger squarely at her. 

She worked from 6AM to 11PM.  From the moment she began making breakfast while simultaneously packing our lunches to the moment when she finally sat down to read a little before bed, she did nothing but serve her family.  Between the duties of raising four children and working side-by-side with her husband to run the family business, she barely had a moment to breathe.  But when we needed her, she always made time.  If I needed a ride to school, she made time.  If I needed supplies for a school project, she made time.  If I needed help with my math homework, she made time.  When I needed a ride at the last minute to go on my first date, she made time.  And when I struggled to cope with my first break-up, she made time.

She taught me to respect others, appreciate what I have, and that the only thing I should ever hate is the word hate. 

She's been one of the main supporters of my writing aspirations from the very beginning.  When other family members told me I'd never be published, she urged me to follow my heart and work hard for what I wanted.  And without that support, I would've likely given up many years ago.  I've written a total of ten books to date, one of which she even edited for me.  I can't say enough about what her support has done for my writing career.

When I told her that a girl I met online was coming halfway across the country to visit me for a week, I said "Don't worry, she'll be staying in a hotel."

She said, "Why do that when she can stay here?"

Five years later, when I made the announcement that I was moving 900 miles away, other family members scoffed.  "You have no idea what you're getting into," they said.

She said, "You're going to do just fine."

More than all of that, however, she has been a living breathing example of what Christianity is truly all about.  She taught me that the first and most important commandment is to love others.  I've seen her volunteer for charity work, give stuffed toys to children's hospitals, bring strangers into her home, and most of all, care for my father during his final years.  As Alzheimer's consumed his memory and his motor functions, she carefully bathed, fed, and clothed him every single day.  She made sure he had music to listen to or movies to watch.  She brushed his teeth and combed his hair.  When he stared back at her blankly, she'd smile and tell him she loved him.  Her dedication to upholding the vow of marriage was unquestionable.

I've been trying for years to put these feelings into words in a way that does her justice.  I'm not sure I've really done that here, but I'm beginning to think it's because there just aren't any words that properly express my gratitude and appreciation for everything she's done.  I owe her everything I have and everything I am.  She is a counselor and a teacher.  A barber and a cook.  A nurse and a cheerleader.  A fighter and a defender.  A friend and a mentor.

She's my mother.

And she's my hero.