I wish I could put into words how much you mean to me but, well, I guess eloquence is not my thing when it comes to talking about those I love most. It’s not that I don’t want to tell the whole world how amazing you are because really, they’re delusional if they think there’s a greater mother out there. I mean, you’re the only one I’d ever want. But as much as I say these things, they’re just words. Your life is a living novel; it’s a life meant to be experienced, not one to be read on some blog I write. I’m just blessed that I’ve gotten to experience it.
There are so many times when we’re at Mociute’s or just hanging out that I think, “Man, I wish I could have known you when you were growing up. I know we would have been friends.” You just seem so…cool, for a lack of a better word. But no, I didn’t get to know you back there. Instead, I think I got the better end of the deal. I got the privilege and blessing of being raised as your daughter. I got to see your beautiful face on a daily basis and grow up knowing there would always be someone behind me in all that I do. I don’t know how many days of your life, years even, were spent sitting in bleachers in some hot, sweaty gym, cheering me on with all your heart. I could probably count on one hand how many games, matches, or meets of mine you’ve missed in the roughly 20 years I played sports. That’s impressive Mom. Seriously, pat yourself on the back for that one.
More than sports though, you’ve encouraged and supported me in life. Simple things, like coming to school at 4am with ice packs when I had a migraine or going to see “Fireproof” with me when no one else would. You’re there for me–always.
I’ll never forget the moment I decided not to go to St. Thomas. I was lying on the couch icing my ankle, because, of course I was hurt–story of my life. As I thought about next year and not having you around, I started crying. “What does it hurt? Let me get you another ice pack.” You got me an ice pack, some Motrin, repositioned my foot so it wouldn’t hurt as bad. And then I said, “You know, next year if this happens, I’m on my own.” And that’s when you said the deal breaking words, the words that would keep me home for another four years. “I’ll always be only a plane ride away.” I couldn’t do it Mama. It just broke me to think that I wouldn’t have you right there, that I wouldn’t be able to laugh with you, to cry with you, to just be with you. You see, you’re more than a mother to me; you’re also my friend.
Though times have changed and I have flown the coop, for now anyway, who you are hasn’t. You are still my mother and my friend–that will forever remain the same. You are the one who has taught me what support and encouragement look like. You are the one who has taught me what it means to make people feel appreciated and valued. You are the one who has taught me what it means to serve as Christ does, without expecting anything in return. There is so much Christ in you, Mama, and I know I don’t tell you that enough, or really ever, but it’s true. It is so true. Christ is evident in the way you live your daily life, in the type of wife you are, mother you are, sister you are, friend you are. It is Christ in you that compels you to take the train downtown to go see Teta Rasa at the hospital after already sitting with Senelis at his doctor’s appointment. It is Christ in you that compels you to hide cards in my bag before I leave for the Race. Christ is in you Mama and I see it, and others see it, and it is beautiful. So, so beautiful.
I can’t thank you enough for everything you have done for me in these past 23 years nor will I ever be able to put into words how much I love you, but I hope that you know that I do and that I am. Aciu uz viska Mama. Seriously, nuo sirdies, aciu. Tiek daug taves myliu!
