Seventeen and navigating my way through the treacherous roads called high school I sit here. I’m hoping my words don’t fail me right now. I’m taking a deep breath in…

This past week has been terribly difficult. It felt as if I were riding a bicycle downhill with faulty breaks. Oddly enough, the more momentum I gain the more stability I feel. Honesty, the past few months I’ve discovered a lot about myself and the things that truly mean the most to me. This past week though, I was just trying to see through the obscure details and unknown answers of this beautiful whirlwind I’m living that I call life.

I have to be honest with you, I am the most impatient person. I fear exposing my roots of impatience, but this bicycle of growth and its faulty breaks has been picking up speed since the first of the year. So to tell you the truth, I fear it’s not slowing down anytime soon.

One of the nurses I had when in the hospital once told me, “The greatest growth in life happens to occur right after you are pruned.” This really hit me hard. Of course, not at the time, but this past week. So much has happened in my family the past couple of months—things that I can’t do anything about. What first sent these spoked wheels turning was the hatred I have stored up for this grey area of my life and my wanting to be in control of it all—or the hopes that it will all figure itself out.

I hate not being able to coordinate everything. I hate not being able to help everyone around me and make every bad situation good. It’s a part of my nature to just want to help. This week though I realized, I can’t coordinate the plot; or direct the characters; or design the backdrop at which my whole story unfolds.

I am a creature who wants immediate results. When I want something done I do it then. When I want to buy something I want it at the same moment—forget waiting 7-10 business days for shipping. When I see someone or something hurting, all I want to do is  make everything better. Yet, being the current chapter of my life—seventeen, in high school, not a penny to my name other than the allowance I get—my mind and heart throb with impatience to make that of which is bad, turn to good.

I ached for words this week and when I couldn’t find them, it angered me.

So this morning I tilted the front tire of my metaphorical bicycle of growth downhill by posturing myself at the One who restructures and reconfigures my heart—I so kindly asked for wisdom.

I’ve been struggling this week on trying to describe what my mom means to me in a card or on my blog. I thought, “How on earth will I be able to give my mom EVERYTHING she deserves when I am only seventeen, penniless, and at a loss for words.”

Somehow I found the words. I dedicate them to all the mothers out there: my friends mothers, grandmothers, aunts, and also cousins who are moms, but especially, to my mother. In truthfulness, these words are the only thing I am able to give her this year.

So mom here’s to you… here’s to the woman who warms my heart, to the boo-boo kisser, to my rock and lastly to all the women who have touched my life: you are  braver than you know. You make the music, that makes the life, that gives the rhythm to the day in and out.

Mom, you are courageous. You deliver babies by c-section or adoption certificate or by every push and pant and wailing battle-cry of giving birth. You give more than you think you have and when you are empty, when you are bone dry, you somehow wring out one more drop, one more bottle, one more soothing talk of my temper tantrum when something doesn’t go right.

Mom, you’re my hero. You make a budget stretch. You clip coupons. You fight the stubborn ketchup stain or even the stain of my own tears. You face the awkward parent-teacher conferences. You listen when I need you to. You translate for me when I don’t know how to explain. You do the hard work of teaching at every moment. You find a hundred new ways to answer a hundred different versions of the question why.

Mom you are a champion: You show up. You take photos. You cheer me on. You shuttle me to and fro and lug all my troubles and burdens with you. You disagree with me, making me change my skirt or shirt, but I know you love fiercely despite those unruly bangs that Uptown Maven had when she was young or even when I talk back; all because you love me. You don’t let me have my way sometimes and mom, I thank you for that.

Mom, you are real. You learned to laugh at your reflection. You learned to revel in your beautiful, smily wrinkles. You lose your temper and you yell, but then you surprise me and apologize saying that you are only human. From that, I learn respect. You cry and you venture out into an ocean of vulnerability with only a small dingy and two short oars to keep you afloat when you become a parent—a mother.

Mom, you are my anchor: You yield you figure, your abs, your size 4 jeans, but your will turns into muscle that is unheard of. It grows strong with determination. No one will wound your precious child without going through you first. Mom, when I was diagnosed and in the hospital I never realized that the pain and suffering I felt—when I felt forsaken—I never knew you felt that, but ten times more. Now, I do know that. So mom, you are my last harbor—a lighthouse—in the storm of the internet and all the friendship troubles I have faced, failed grades, and peer pressure.

In the everydayness of these moments,  you start to feel it—the weight of glory, the glorious ordinary. On your quietest, least interesting days, you get better at hearing the music of motherhood. Slowly the harmony of it rises—the collection of tasks that every mother cycles through in a day—the marriage of the mundane and the eternal. The small that directly relates to the massive. There is no part of your everyday rinse and repeat routine that isn’t significant.

Mom, you make the music that gives the life, that makes the rhythm to the day in and out and in again. Mom, I just wanted to tell you, you are braver than you could possible know and even though some days I may seem oblivious to all that you do, please know, I notice it. Through it all you are teaching me everything I need to know. One day I’ll look back and remember that you, mom, taught me how to be the mother that I hope to be to my own children.

So mom, I’ll tell you this: you are also stronger than you know, all because you mother.

This week maveners, by letting go of my impatience that my heart held, I discovered that in the midst of life—where my bicycle picked up speed—there is hope.

Hope and patience, I discovered go hand in hand, similar the relationship mothers have with their children.

I’m exhaling now; I’m letting go of the handlebars, taking my feet off the pedals and letting go of that breath that has been at the bottom of my tight chest.

So this next week, I’ll start with another deep breath in. I realize, that I have Someone in my heart who’s designed the perfect, flawlessly paced ride I could ever imagine… one with patience and hope. I will promise to be patient with myself and others, I can’t promise I’ll be good at it but I’ll try.

I’m here today all because my mom, seventeen years ago gave birth to me. When I looked up at her, swattled in my blanket, I think I even knew then that this is a bond and friendship I will always cherish. And even though, I think my words will never give my thankfulness justice, I pray that she see’s how much she truly means to me— my shining lighthouse, my last harbor, my anchor to my soul, my mother.

See you next week, but until then, patience, dear heart.

Uptown Maven