I bet I received a mom-note for every event of my life. Graduations, acceptances into choral groups and school plays, honor rolls, birthdays, milestones, EVERYTHING. My mom even inspired other people to write to me. For my thirteenth birthday, she secretly asked all of the most important people in my life to write me a letter. They did -- dozens and dozens of them -- and my mom collected them into a beautiful scrapbook for me to treasure.
When I went away to college, my mother's notes stopped showing up at my place at the dinner table and began arriving in Box 845. Hundreds of letters. The old fashioned kind that would sit in my mailbox in the Student Life Center and feel so good to hold in my hands. Those letters were my tangible connection to home. To love. To knowing that someone believed in me and was rooting for me and was excitedly looking forward to seeing me.
There are a lot of women who are good mothers. And sadly, as I've gotten older, I've realized that there are a lot of people -- a LOT of people -- who didn't have good mothers. They didn't grow up being sheltered and protected and staunchly defended by the eternal love of a very good woman. But I did. I most certainly did.
My mommy wrote me a letter last night. She had just finished "catching up" on my blog, and she wanted to tell me what she liked about my posts and how she'd laughed at certain ones and been proud of me for others. She told me a funny story about her week and asked if I was feeling better -- had I worn the green socks she sent me on St. Patty's day? She ended her letter with love and reminded me that she is always, always praying for me. She signed it "your own Musmi," because that is what I call her.
There are people who are easy to love.
There are people who teach you to love.
And then, there is my Musmi. Who IS love.