I’m becoming my mother. This transformation is a subtle thing, but it’s there just the same. When I first noticed it, I was… chagrined.
At times, I am dealing with my children and certain phrases pop out of my mouth: “This house is not a gymnasium!” “Do you hear me?” “Did you grow up in a barn?” As I utter the words, I can almost imagine that my voice turns into the voice of my mother. There’s an edge to it, but not a course or brittle one, just different. Her voice is a little deeper than mine, a little clearer. My mother’s voice is smooth, unhindered by the raspy tinge of years of smoking—unlike my own. Yet the words are the same. I hear myself repeating the quotes and am instantly taken back in time twenty years.
For ages my mother directed the music and drama ministries at my church. I remember clearly the day she “passed the baton”—only it wasn’t a baton. My mom had grown tired of the work this duty involved and I was fresh at the reigns, eager and full of excitement for this new venture. I had already begun taking over many of the responsibilities. During a choir rehearsal, my Dad appeared with a tall canvas “Director’s Chair”. My parents had lovingly had my name and the word “Director” silk screened onto the back of the chair. Everyone clapped and I cried. In retrospect, I can see it was another step in becoming my mother.
About five years ago, I found myself at the cash register of a department store with an outfit I had spent all of ten minutes selecting: black stretch pants, a green shirt, a jacket with off-white, black and green woven into a plaid type pattern. “Oh my gosh!” I muttered. “This is exactly what Mom would wear!” It was an odd sensation.
I’m married to a wonderful man who is so much like my father it’s scary. They have the same unique sense of humor, they are both men of faith, and they each fix computers for a living. If I “married my father” as people tell me, doesn’t that make me more like my mother?
When I first began noticing how much I was like my mother (I was in my early twenties), I cringed inwardly. Do all young parents hope to be different from their parents? Do they all consider themselves in some way superior? I did. I was not becoming my mother!
As I’ve matured, however, I’ve discovered my mother to be a woman of impeccable character and high moral standards. She has incredible strength and wisdom; she is courageous, bold, opinionated and not hesitant to voice her opinions. She has raised three children, managed a household and upheld all the duties of a pastor’s wife for over twenty years. She is a published author, an accomplished painter, a seamstress, a counselor, a leader in her church family, and my best friend. She has been and done all of these things at the same time and has made it look easy, although now that I myself am an adult I know it was anything but easy. I have incredible love and respect for my mother. I cherish her friendship above all others, and in my maturity have come to yet another realization: There are worse things I could become than my mother. With each day that passes, I wish I were more like her.