A night with Mom

The night before I left for college, I sat out on the porch with my Mom. She was a teacher and had to work the next morning and so she couldn’t join Pops and Jay as they dropped me off to begin my campus experience. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that evening has become a landmark moment in my life. I was a fairly emotional teenager, but I don’t think I would fully comprehend the things I would feel that evening for years to come. Mom certainly understood them right away.

(Mom, you’ll be the first to read this and I know you remember what we talked about but I want to, for once, put the spotlight on you and your seemingly unending goodness. Bear with me so anyone else who sees this will understand why I’m so proud to be your son.)

While we sat on that porch, in the hours as the sun began to set and, eventually, left us with nothing but the glow of the moon and a house light, we talked about moments of massive importance and memories I didn’t realize I would still remember to this day. We talked about Mr. Casper and Grandpa. We talked about Lorain Catholic closing and how sad it made us. We laughed at thoughts of me in tights, singing a solo for the drama club’s production of Cinderella. You told me how relieved you were that my football days were over because of how nervous those games made you.

We talked about girlfriends that had come and gone, homecoming floats, and all the times that Kurt, Brad, and I were seemingly inseparable. We remembered the nightly big family dinners where we all laughed and ate until it hurt. We got misty-eyed talking about the recent evenings where it was just you, me, and Pops. I think we were both a little happy that it was dark outside at that point.

We thought about days at Cedar Point and remembered how hard it was for the whole family to drop Heather off at Ohio University when she went to college. That silent, tear-soaked four-hour drive home the five of us shared.

We talked about the classes I was going to take and you mentioned a few memories from your time at Kent State. Despite what I can only imagine was an infinite well of sadness, knowing that the last of your four kids was about to head off to college, you expressed only joy and excitement for the new adventure I was about to embark on…

How did you manage that? How did you find a way to, yet again, put your children first above all else?

I have no recollection of what time you finally went to bed that night. All I know is that it would be more accurate to call it “early morning” as opposed to “late night” but I do remember the last few things you told me.

You told me that, in the morning, everything was going to change. Everything in my life was going to be entirely different. I would have brand new experiences and I’d be responsible for my actions in ways that I hadn’t yet known. You and Pops were only an hour away but there wasn’t the same safety net there always had been. Decisions would be up to me about realizing when I needed to sleep, study, and treat my body well. You told me that there were going to be so many changes.

But most importantly, despite what I can only imagine was a raging torrent of emotions, you told me that these changes were good. You reminded me that different doesn’t mean bad. You were so excited about the life I was about to lead.

I think, deep down, you knew something I didn’t yet. That you and I would always have a special bond. For years and decades to come, we would talk about books and family and life. Perhaps you saw into the future and knew that, even though life was changing, I would always be your baby boy. I would always call you when I needed help with something. I would always turn to you when life got too heavy. How you carry the weight you do, I will never know. You’re the strongest human being I’ve ever met.

There’s a song by Iron & Wine called Upward Over The Mountain that I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. It tells the story of a son talking to his mother, looking back on their relationship. In it, the main character is sharing recollections about their life together while also offering her glimpses into his experiences after he left their shared home. It shows how much he’s changed, explaining that, inevitably, children will fly from the home. It’s a sad song but I find happiness in a specific lyric:

“Mother, remember the blink of an eye when I breathed through your body?”

He’s talking about his birth, something no baby can remember, of course. However, for me, this line reminds me of that night on the porch. Mom, you looked at me that evening, both our eyes red and swollen from crying, and assured me that it wasn’t just okay that I was beginning the next chapter of my life, but that it was good and exciting. You breathed new life into me that night, much like you do every single time I call you or see you in person.

The chorus of the song also makes me think of you and our family.

So may the sunrise bring hope where it once was forgotten

Sons are like birds, flying upward over the mountain

Your sons and daughters have grown up but we haven’t really flown away. We’re all still close and we all communicate almost every single day. That’s because of you and Pops. You taught us that we should always look after the ones we love and hold each other close. You are the roots of our family tree. This immense, loud, hilarious group of people that everyone I know looks at with jealousy because of the family you and Dad have created.

So may the sunrise bring hope where it once was forgotten…

Lately, it can be hard to find hope most days. The world is a dark place and it’s been dark for a while. But that night on the porch was dark too and the sun rose all the same. It brought hope for the life I was about to lead. Each and every time the sun rises, it brings hope of what that day will offer. You instilled that belief in me. Not just in a single night reminiscing about high school, but in every aspect of life.

You’ve shown us all that teaching doesn’t end when you retire and neither does learning. You’ve shown us patience, kindness, strength, ingenuity, love, and joy. You’ve empowered all of your children to not be afraid to show our emotions.

(Yes, I know you probably have onion eyes right now. I did writing this as well).

You bring hope to everyone in your life where it otherwise might be forgotten. Through your words and your actions, you continue to teach your grandchildren how to change the world for good in both big and little ways. You’ve taught thousands of students about all of this and more. You’ve taught four children how to be good, caring adults. And you taught me that it’s okay to fly to great heights because you’re there to welcome me home.

The gifts you’ve given us will never be repaid. The light you bring to the world will always overcome even the darkest moments. You’re the sunrise that brings hope where it once was forgotten. Out of the infinitesimal possibilities this universe offers, we got you as our mom. What a concept. What an absolutely impossible, perfect miracle.

I love you. Thank you. For everything. For always.