If anyone ever deserved sainthood without asking for it, it would be my Mom.
She’d hate that sentence, which is probably the first sign it’s true.
This year, she and Dad would have celebrated sixty years of marriage.
I was the reason people never forgot their anniversary.
I arrived early—basically still wrapped as a wedding gift—so my birthday and their anniversary always lived close enough together that nobody had to work too hard to remember either one.
They were high school sweethearts.
The kind of love story that sounds too clean to be true, except it wasn’t clean at all. It was real. Farm life. Three boys. Bills. Broken things. Mud. Baseball uniforms. Choir concerts that probably qualified as public suffering.
Real love.
I was the first kid.
Then came my brother five years later, and another brother five years after that.
Three boys with two main talents:
getting into trouble and eating everything in sight.
Looking back, I can admit I was probably the creative director behind most of the bad decisions.
Mom and Dad were usually good sports about it, but when discipline was required, it arrived hard and fast. My rear end can personally confirm this.
That was parenting then.
No TED Talks.
No gentle parenting podcasts.
Just immediate correction and the understanding that if you were being disciplined, you had almost certainly earned it.
And I usually had.
Dad was busy in the fields most days, and Mom’s version of childcare was often:
“Go outside and find something to do.”
So we did.
Motorcycles.
BB guns.
Creeks.
Fields.
Questionable decisions.
Basically, if something could end with stitches, we probably gave it a shot.
Mom somehow kept all of us alive.
She also taught us to read before kindergarten, which means she probably invented preschool before preschool was even a thing.
On a farm, you learned to do things yourself.
She made sure we did.
School came with its own adventures.
Teachers probably told her I was doing great.
Strong student.
Good with people.
Bright future.
She’d smile politely while privately wondering how someone capable of advanced math could still make such unbelievably stupid decisions before dinner.
I took trig.
I took calculus.
Balancing a checkbook, however, remained a mystery apparently too advanced for modern science.
Still, she and Dad never missed anything.
Band concerts.
Choir concerts.
Football games.
Basketball.
Baseball.
If one of us was there, they were there.
Supporting us through performances that probably sounded less like music and more like a hostage situation.
Always present.
Always proud.
Always loving.
They made it to their fortieth anniversary at Northridge Country Club in Tekamah, where the family also learned far more than necessary about how much Laura apparently loved vodka.
They made it to their fiftieth at Carrabba’s, with cake, gifts, and the kind of laughter families spend years trying to recreate.
We were good at being together.
That mattered.
Then Dad got sick.
At first it was just appointments.
Then hospitals.
Then more hospitals.
Then life quietly reorganized itself around survival.
Mom never announced she was sacrificing anything.
She just did it.
She drove him to every appointment.
Sat through every waiting room.
Learned every medication.
Managed every fear he wouldn’t say out loud.
When Dad was diagnosed with AML, caregiving stopped being part of her life and became her life.
She gave up time.
Sleep.
Plans.
Pieces of herself.
Not dramatically.
Not for applause.
Just because that’s what love does when it’s real.
She stayed beside him until the very end.
Making sure he was comfortable.
Making sure he was cared for.
Making sure he was never alone.
Most importantly, making sure he was loved.
After Dad passed, there was the service, the casseroles, the condolences, and that strange quiet that follows when everyone goes home and grief finally sits down beside you.
You worry about people then.
Especially the ones who spent so much time being strong for everyone else.
But Mom kept moving.
Lunches with friends.
Dinner with family.
Taking the grandkids out.
Teaching dance classes at the senior center.
Tai chi.
Pickleball.
She somehow became busier than the rest of us.
I go to the gym five days a week and still feel like she could outrun me without stretching first.
She’s even caddied for me on the golf course.
Nothing humbles a grown man faster than your mother carrying herself like she could still outwork everyone in the room.
And honestly, she probably could.
So yes—
if sainthood means volunteering,
loving,
serving,
protecting,
sacrificing,
and somehow making it all look normal…
then I think she’s earned the title.
She won’t agree.
She’ll probably roll her eyes reading this.
But that’s fine.
Saints rarely recognize themselves.
Mom, we love you.
And we noticed.
Even when you thought we didn’t.
If this resonated with you, you’re not alone.
