A favourite picture is one of myself as a child nestled in the arms of my 26-year old mother. My Madonna image. I am pre-occupied with my small peaked cap, while my Mom beams in the direction of the photographer. My Mom was a physical beauty – I'm sure that you've noticed the family resemblance. I'm now twice as old as my mother was in that photo. Where have the years gone? 
My Mom's two brothers were alcoholics. Leo, the youngest of the three, succumbed to his drinking at an early age. The Aqua Velva and other alcohol-based substitutes were too much for his body. Mom's other brother, the eldest of the three, lived a long life – and grew into a holy man. I loved him dearly. He was so proud of my priesthood.
Mom was the breadwinner in the family. After the birth of each of her four children she was back to work as soon as possible. At one point, young nannies were hired to care for us after school. I think that my two brothers and one sister put the nannies to the test at times. Like the day when an exasperated nanny called my Mom at work to tell her that something terrible had happened that day. Expecting the worse, Mom hurried home only to find that we had ceased the rock fight with our neighbours and that the head wounds had stopped bleeding.
From time to time, my Mom would bring me home a Little Golden Book, very popular during the 1960s of my youth. Mother Goose, Little Red Hen and The Three Bears were especially endearing. My love for reading and the written word are rooted in those gifts from Mom. I am forever grateful.
I don't seem to remember a whole lot from my youth. However, one thing stands out – the nightly ritual of being "tucked in" by Mom. All was right with the world, regardless of what the day had wrought. The fresh, vibrant scent of bed sheets and pillow cases just in from the line (Mom still hangs out her laundry), being tucked in tight under the blankets, Mom leaning over me to kiss me goodnight. Remind me again of this if I ever approach senility.
Mom was my first spiritual director or soul mate. That role has not ceased. My failures and hurts, my rebellions and waywardness, my joys and blessings – she has absorbed them all. In the midst of it all, she has carried her own struggles and hurts, ecstasies and contentment.
I hope you don't think that my Mother had it all together. She didn't, obviously. But, regardless of what came her way, it was her profound faith that held sway when all else seemed absurd and random. She pondered deeply all that happened. She treasured all things in her heart and invited life into the crucible of prayer. I venture to say that Christ has become her constant companion.
She expressed much of this in writing. One day, she wrote the following in a letter to me: "It is only now that I see a lot of the pain Dad and I had in our childhoods and perhaps we were both running away from our own situations as opposed to entering a loving relationship. But, in spite of all the storms, love did bloom and continues to blossom and grow, and please God it will do so for the rest of our days. One thing I will say about marriage is that you have to work at it every day of your life. In matters of love, the past is gone, let us learn from it; the future is unknown, let us live in hope; for all we have is today in which to live to our full potential and to "be still and know that I am God."
Words born of faith, words born of life – the life of a Mother.