There’s a rhythm to time when you’re with your aging parents, slower, quieter, deeper. Not the rushed tempo of deadlines or the frantic pace of errands. It’s the pause in conversation, the long glances, the old stories retold, the weight of what’s been lost, and the grace of what still remains.
Yesterday was my birthday. I spent the evening with my mom, my daughter, and my Aunt Joyce. We sat together for over three hours, talking, laughing, sharing food and memories. In that small circle, three generations of family gathered around the table, I saw the gentle, persistent pulse of love that has carried me all these years.
What I’ve learned over a lifetime, what I know to the depths of my soul, is that my mom loves me. Fiercely. Endlessly. Sometimes imperfectly, but always truly.
As a boy, if I ever felt hurt or unloved, I’d retreat to my bedroom and hide under the covers. I don’t remember exactly what would drive me to do this, but I remember what I was really waiting for: her. My mom. Without fail, she always came. She would sit beside me, gently pull the blankets down, and speak softly to me. That’s all I needed; to know she loved me, that she cared enough to come find me in the quiet.
“What she gave me can’t be measured in distance. It lives in my voice, in the way I hold my child, in the way I love.”
I was about ten years old the night I got lost at the Puyallup Fair. My brother had gone off with friends, and I lingered with my parents, only to change my mind too late. I couldn’t find him, or them when I tried to return. I searched for what must have been an hour or two, calm but alone in a sea of strangers.
Somehow, I bought myself a little knife at a stand, imagine that, a 10-year-old boy buying a knife alone at a fair. Different times. I was oddly proud of that knife. But that pride disappeared the moment I saw my mom again. I ran to her and broke down crying. The calm mask fell. I clung to her. My dad was angry with me, but my mom, she protected me. That’s who she is. The mama bear.
“She would have given her life to save him. I know that. Her grief has never faded.”
Not every memory is easy. Some are shaped by grief so deep it never fully releases its grip.
When my brother Troy died at 16, everything slowed into a fog. He had asthma, and we were used to hospital visits and breathing treatments. That afternoon, when he sat at the kitchen counter, struggling to breath, and asked me to call my mom, I couldn’t reach her. No cell phones. No pagers. Just silence. Hours later, I had gone to my dad’s new apartment close by, not worried about Troy at all, I had seen it many times, he was always okay. Then, first my aunt, then a friend pulled up. She had come to tell me he was gone and take me to the hospital. It was like a sledgehammer hit me in the chest.
At the hospital, I quietly walked into a room where my parents and sister sat in stunned silence as I and other relatives arrived. My mom couldn’t even look at me. I wanted to be near her, but in that moment, I wasn’t the son she longed to see. I didn’t understand at the time, but I do now.
She had watched Troy die, helpless, as he called out to Jesus for help, then thanked Him, as if Jesus were there with him in his final moments. My mom raced toward the hospital, my brother struggling for air in the passenger seat, my poor sister in the back. They didn’t make it in time. EMS met them along the way and did what they could, cutting off his shirt in a desperate attempt to save him. They couldn’t.
To this day, my mom still can’t speak of it without breaking down. She would have given her life for his. I know that. Her grief has never faded.
As with many mothers and daughters-in-law, my mom and my first wife didn’t always get along. There were bitter moments. It took me a long time to understand their tension.
Looking back, I see two women, both wounded, both stubborn, both imperfect. My mom, who lost her own mother at thirteen in a drunk driving accident, never really had a model for how to work through loss or conflict. My first wife, carrying unresolved pain from her own childhood, was still searching for emotional security. And me, I was a young man who wasn’t assertive enough to bridge the gap, I wasn’t able to see things clearly. I see that now. I see that my mom, through my ex-wife’s mental health and deeper problems, was trying to help.
Becoming a parent myself, I’ve realized the hardest part of adulthood isn’t finding out your parents are flawed, it’s learning to love them even more because of it.
My birthday dinner with my mom and Aunt Joyce was filled with laughter and old rivalries. The two of them, now roommates, sharing life as they age, traded teasing barbs over long-past grievances.
One especially funny moment: a conversation about hair color turned into a playful jab. My aunt, the elder and typically more reserved, turned to my mom and said, “You were such a pansy-ass,” remembering how my mom used to cry when their mother combed her hair. I laughed so hard. That fight? It’s at least seventy years old. Some things never change.
And that’s part of the beauty.
“In her eyes, I am still her son. Still that boy under the blanket, waiting to be seen.”
When it came time to share the news about Xue, my wife, and our child on the way, I was nervous. My mom is a loving person, but not always the most skilled communicator. She can be passive-aggressive, and I wasn’t sure how she’d take it.
I invited her and my Aunt Joyce over for Mother’s Day dinner. I told them everything, my relationship, the marriage, the baby. My mom was stunned. Quiet. But she listened. And the next day, she called with questions, not accusations. She wanted to understand Xue, especially her faith.
Since then, she’s been nothing but supportive. She’s extended love and grace, and even tried to help my son better understand me. That’s what love looks like, not loud declarations, but steady presence.
My mom and I have shared decades of joy and pain. We’ve seen each other at our worst and our best. We’ve hurt each other and helped each other heal.
In her eyes, I am still her son. Still that boy under the blanket, waiting to be seen. And in my heart, she is still the one I run to at the fair.
Time runs slower with them. And soon, I’ll be far away, moving to China for a new chapter in my life. Thousands of miles will separate us, but what she gave me can’t be measured in distance. It lives in my voice, in the way I hold my child, in the way I love.
I wouldn’t trade a single second of it.
Echo From The West 