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Of Birth, Death, and Motherhood
Within a span of 10 short days, I met in close encounters two profoundly polar life experiences — that of birth and death.
One fills the heart with joy. The other utterly breaks it.
My son was born 10 days before my dear mother died. I found meaning in why he arrived 6 weeks early when my mother passed. It was as if the rhythm of life was pulsating towards a compassionate order of things. Both unfoldings speak of the same great love and unquestioning gratitude to the Giver of Life.
As the youngest of 10 children, my parents were nearly in their forties when I arrived. Although that is not a late age, I somehow grew up thinking how fragile their lives were and how I could lose them any day. For some reason, I nurtured a very protective attitude towards them. This mindset was transformative for a child. It made me value them even on ordinary days. Growing up, it gave me a reason to strive in school and serve at home.
My mother, I thought, was particularly fragile. She once told me she’d be lucky if she lived to her sixties, at all. It came as a surprise how that number kept rising every passing year, despite her health issues and many close calls. It turns out, she was a fierce survivor of a woman. She bore and raised 10 children after…
