Apparently, I was giving my mother fits before I was even born.
My mother has told me the story many times: The fear was that I was going to born breech. Nothing was persuading me to turn around. It just seemed I was determined to come out backwards–that’s me. I do things my own way.
But at the last moment (my usual method of operation), I turned.
She has never actually come right out and said it, but I can’t help but think that my mother must have known I’d be a difficult, stubborn, hard-to-deal-with child from that moment on.
And yet, she still took me in her arms–this little wriggling mass of stubborn, and looked at me with the sort of affection that only a mother can offer. Nothing changed the fact that she loved me, that she had just sacrificed her own body to bring me into this world, and that she was going to sacrifice so much for me over and over again throughout the years.
I didn’t deserve it. I had not done anything to deserve it. For nine months I was a complete mooch–literally, a parasite. I kept her awake at night, made her back ache, laid on her bladder so that she couldn’t be more than a stone’s throw from a bathroom. I made her ankles swell. I caused her to have cravings for a McMuffin practically every day. And then, I tossed in my own signature move with that whole breech thing…
And still she loved me.
But for as much as she has loved me these thirty-six years, her love pales in comparison to the love God has for me.
That’s just amazing.
And that’s grace.