Ricochet is the best place on the internet to discuss the issues of the day, either through commenting on posts or writing your own for our active and dynamic community in a fully moderated environment. In addition, the Ricochet Audio Network offers over 50 original podcasts with new episodes released every day.
Five-year-old me, after I didn’t get my way: “I hate you, mom!”
My saint of a mother: “That may be, Andrew, but let me tell you something. For as much as you think that you hate me right now, I love you by more than 100 times that amount.”
It didn’t matter how many times I yelled that phrase when I was being an ornery little [expletive]. My mom would always tell me that she loved me more than I thought that I hated her. Trust me, that sense of security and love that my mom fostered in me has had a lasting impact on my life. There were the times when I disappointed her with the stupid decisions that I made in college; I can recall one particular phone call when she said, “I’ve never been more disappointed in you, but I love you more than that level of disappointment.” A mother’s love is an amazing thing.
I remember times when I was a teenager and we would see a mom and her four-, five-, or six-year-old kid in public. The kid would yell that he hated her. And the mom responded with, “I hate you too.” Every time that I saw that I would turn to my mom and thank her for telling me that she loved me more than I thought that I hated her. She’d respond, “And I’ll always love you more than you love me.”
This Thanksgiving will be the second one without my mom, I’m certain that it won’t be any easier than the first. I’ve been thinking of her more than usual. Even though she is no longer here to tell me that she loves me more than I love her, I know that her love is now eternal.
Perhaps that why this was her favorite hymn: