My Mom is my Hero

Faye Price
Aug 9, 2017 · 6 min read
Because I felt this post needed a picture, here is one from our trip to Yellowstone. This is a reflection taken at the Grand Prismatic Spring.

Hello blog, It’s been a while. I wish I were here to say I’d be writing more frequently, honestly I do. You should see my drafts pile; it’s overwhelming. After writing out my reading/writing calendar for grad school, I really doubt how much time I’ll be able to pour into blogging, but I just had to get this written. I put it off all day yesterday because I knew I would cry the whole time I wrote it… which I did. I am not good at voicing my feelings, I am much better at writing them, so that’s what this is. It is me putting a “voice” to something that I should say a lot more often.

My mom is amazing.

I know, you’re probably doubting or scrutinizing that statement, but she really is. I mean she has her flaws as we all do, but one thing she is amazing at it’s loving others. If you know her in real life, you know just how amazing she is. She loves to love people. She loves to talk to people, to hear their stories and to relate to them. It takes us an extra hour to leave church on Sundays because she is always talking to people, asking how they are and loving them with that simple blessing of being genuinely listened to. I can remember being a child and watching her talk to strangers at department stores whose hearts were hurting; simply listening to them in quiet affirmation.

In the past month my mom has flown out to California, helped me pack all my things into my little Kia, driven with me through nine states (because I had to see the Grand Canyon and Yellowstone before I headed out east) back to Texas, dealt with my stress over moving, encouraged me spiritually and emotionally, made sure I got to go to and see many of my favorite places and people while I was in my home town as possible (which included driving to Oklahoma one night for amazing catfish), helped me get any last minute things I needed before moving here, driven with me through two more states, served with me on a mission trip where she was an amazing role model of service and love, she fiercely loved and served people in our hometown through serving their physical needs and being emotionally supportive, helped refurbish pretty much all the furniture I moved to Kentucky, gently reminded me that sometimes my tone of voice when I get task oriented can be destructive, helped me pack and move (through three more states) all the way to Kentucky, and helped me get settled in. (We also accidentally drove to Indiana yesterday… for a grand total of 16 states in a little over a month.)

I could go into more detail and leave a book here, but I doubt you want to read that much. She is my hero, but it wasn’t always this way. In fact it came from something very hard.

I’ve struggled with depressive thoughts for most of my life. It started probably around the time I turned 11. Thoughts of not being good enough, smart enough, pretty enough, athletic enough, Christian enough. Thoughts of being a disappointment to those I loved most would keep me up at night in tears. By the time I learned what depression was I was terrified that anyone would find out I felt that way. I put on a smile and pretended everything was fine, everything was perfect, I was okay. It wrecked my spiritual life as well, I didn’t understand how a perfect God could ever love someone as disappointing as I was.

In college, between loving friends and professors and the people I worked with in the summers I was finally comfortable enough to talk to people around me about my struggles, and I found some healing. My assurance in God’s love, regardless of my failure, through Christ’s death was poured into me and renewed my spirit. It was still hard, and I still struggled to accept any affirmation from others or in my faith. But the worst part was, I was always afraid to talk about my struggles too much lest it get back to my parents. I didn’t want them to know about my struggles, ever. I was scared they would be angry, or that they would think I was weak, or worse that they would be hurt. But soon I realized this secrecy was hindering my ministry, I couldn’t be open in trying to help others through similar situations because I couldn’t tell them to talk about it and be honest without being a hypocrite. I couldn’t open up and be completely vulnerable because of fear.

Finally Easter weekend (ironic) 2015 I told my parents about my struggles. About all the pain I’d hid, about self-harm and suicidal thoughts and anger at myself that I’d harbored for way too long, and it was hands down the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I have never been more scared of something in my life. I mean, can’t physically move, can’t speak terrified.I had no idea how they would react… and it was hard for them. There was pain and confusion for a while, but in the long run you know what my mom did? She didn’t blame me or get angry, she didn’t try to deny anything.

She loved me, and it was beautiful.

Through the way she responded to my pain and my confession, I saw Christ’s love in a way I never had before. Where she could have responded in a million different ways she responded by constantly affirming I was loved. In her example I was able to finally grasp and understand God’s love for us broken corruptible sinners like I’d never understood before. How she saw the darkness, acknowledged it and simply decided to love and support me however she could spoke a healing salve across my spirit. If my mother can see this pain and brokenness and still love me like this, how much more does God who sees so much more pain, brokenness, and depravity.

She didn’t hold on to the past, she didn’t dredge it up and throw it in my face, she didn’t cast blame or get angry with me, she acknowledged the confession, and simply reaffirmed I was loved. Her love for me was plain to see in her actions, in the way she served me, disciplined me, counseled me, and reaffirmed me.

I was blown away.

It allowed me to finally understand how God looks at us, sees our sin, hears our plea of repentance and for forgiveness, forgives us and reaffirms His love for us. I know the stories aren’t exact reflections of each other, but even though I had learned and understood God’s forgiveness and lovingkindness on paper and in theory, to be honest I’d never truly believed in it. It seemed impossible for love to trump me sinning against Him over and over. But in her example of love winning out over any other response, I was able to finally accept and understand God’s love for me. His ability to look at me surrounded by my depravity and sin and to still love and forgive me when He does not have to.

I’m reminded of Romans 5 and Paul writing about how Christ died for us while we were still sinners drowning in our own depravity. He came and died for us and we are justified through His blood, not by our own merit because we have none. I am finally able to understand in my heart that Christ’s blood has justified me so that I can see my depravity through the Holy Spirit’s work in my soul, I can call out to God for forgiveness and sanctification through that justification, and be forgiven and loved unconditionally.

There are a million things my mom does well, I could write books on all her skills and attributes, but the reason she is my hero is because she loves like Jesus.

Here I am at 22, about to start grad school in Kentucky of all places, and people keep asking me what I want to do, where I want to work, and honestly I don’t know. What I do know is that no matter where I end up or what I end up doing I want to love like my mother does. I want to be someone who loves like Jesus.

Faye Price

Written by

Sometimes I just need to write.

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