The small frail voice

We chanted the Our Father at Mass yesterday. Normally we just say it en masse, but yesterday we chanted it.

I stood next to Mom as I do, since I take her to Church most Saturdays. All I could hear was her small, frail voice as she chanted. It was as though memory and habit had kicked in as she dutifully half sung the prayer. Her voice was a bit raspy. Yet it was one of the most poignant, quietly beautiful things I've heard.

I'm trying desperately not to become maudlin here. That would undermine anything I want to say. It might destroy whatever point I'm trying to make. But that small, frail voice.

I couldn't continue the chant myself once I actually heard Mom. That voice, little but lithe and lovely, overpowered me. I had to stop; I was too choked up, and it wouldn't do to upset her if she saw me upset. So I just listened, and, I think, appreciated the moment.

For Mom on Mother's Day

Happy Mother's Day to all the Moms out there. Happy Mother's Day too to all of you whose Mothers had you. They deserve the credit, and you owe them everything. Don't waste the chance they gave you. Start by thanking them.

I know she won't see this, but I feel bad that I don't talk about my own mother here anywhere near the degree to which I talk about Pops or even Grandpa Joe. She's been a great Mom, a bit headstrong, maybe, but with her moments. One of those wasn't that long ago.

When she had a pacemaker two and a half years ago at 80 the doctor was explaining after the surgery that it had a ten year battery. "But I need twenty," she immediately told him, as though obvious.

It is a good attitude, right?

Happy Mother's Day Mom.