Mothers’ Day 2006

Introduction

Mothers’ Day 2006

The Good Shepherd theme last Sunday was not just about some of us (about popes, bishops, priests and deacons); it was about all of us. Along the journey of life we all, sooner or later, are shepherds called to lead someone into green pastures, protect them from wolves and call them by name. Today, Mothers’ Day 2006, we celebrate mothers who, together with fathers, are shepherds who lead their kids into green pastures, protect them from wolves and call them by name.

Today I am going to tell a couple of Mothers’ Day stories. You’ve heard them before, but I always keep telling you that good stories are for telling and retelling, and we should get as much mileage out of them as possible. Furthermore, while you might have heard the stories before, you might not have heard them as Mothers’ Day stories.

A Mothers’ Day story about a son named Vernon.

The first is about my dog Tina whom I put to sleep on the 26^th of April, 1997, just nine whole years ago. My grief was very deep and quite visible at the time. A few days later, early in the morning, I had to shop for groceries at what used to be Pick & Save on East Capitol. Even though you are grieving you still have to do such mundane things as shopping. After gathering the food for which I had no taste, I noticed there was only one clerk at the checkout counter—a nice guy, well known and well liked. Being in a rather weepy mood, I didn't want to go to him, because he's the kind of guy who would greet me and say, "Hey man, how are you and your dog, Tina?"

Well, he did just that! When I broke the news, he immediately read my grief. Suddenly he reached for his wallet, opened the cash register, transacted something and then returned the wallet to his pocket. I had no idea what he was doing, and when I handed him my money, he refused it, saying, "I've taken care of it." Then he handed me the checkout receipt which automatically recorded his name. His name is Vernon. He’s black, and color is a part of the story. Here is a black man, who is a blue-collar worker, who has to dress in a white shirt but doesn’t make fifty dollars an hour, and he’s paying for my groceries!

To this very day I still have that checkout slip bearing his name. Before he moved on to a managerial position in some other store, I used to look for him on his birthday, 13^th of June, feast of St. Anthony of Padua. Catholic St. Anthony (who is patron saint for those who are looking for something) doesn’t mean a thing to this man who most probably is a Baptist. That day at Pick and Save I was looking for a Good Samaritan, and I found one in Vernon.

No greater gift

We tell the story today as a Mother’s Day story. What greater gift could Vernon possibly give his mother on Mothers’ Day than what he has already given her? He has given her a son who is sensitive and caring; a son who pours the oil of compassion upon someone who’s grieving; a son who will certainly do the same for her when her time of grief comes as it surely will. No greater gift than that!

How proud such a mother must feel, not for having raised a great doctor or lawyer or golfer, but for having raised a great human being. Down deep in her heart of hearts she feels she’s done something right, and she gives thanks for having raised a winner. It’s not easy for mothers and fathers to do things right these days and raise a winner, especially one like Vernon. We also say this today: neither is it easy for kids these days to do things right and become winners.

A Mothers’ Day story about a son named Francis

The other story is definitely a favorite of mine, as you well know by now. I’ve gotten a lot of mileage out of it. It’s a Milwaukee story. It’s our story. It’s also a Christmas story (it happened on the 6^th of Dec., 1984, the feast of good old St. Nick, famous for giving gifts). It begins as all stories do. Once upon a time there was a big strapping bus-driver, whom everyone likes and calls Kojac. He is going west on Wisconsin Ave. It’s about 3:30 in the afternoon, and it’s only l0 above zero. A tattered and torn woman enters the bus. She’s pregnant, and believe it or not, she’s barefoot! School’s out, and the bus is full of high school kids who are making fun of her.

The bus pulled up to l24th and Bluemound Road. A kid named Francis, about fourteen years old (just that age when kids don’t have a brain in their heads and are utterly selfish) steps up to the front and is ready to get off. "And then I saw the darnest thing I had ever seen in my life,” recounts Kojac, "the darnest thing! He had his shoes in his hands, and his feet were bare! And he says to this woman: `Here, M’am, you need them more than I do!' I cried," said the big strapping bus-driver, "I cried!"

The Milwaukee Journal for Saturday December 8, 1984, carried the good news about this kid (who had the courage to give his shoes away in front of laughing peers). Then on Sunday, December 9, United Press International spread the good news of this story to the whole nation. By then, hundreds and thousands of others were weeping with big Kojac as they poured over their Sunday newspapers.

No greater gift

This story, too, we tell today as a Mothers’ Day story. What greater gift could Francis possibly give his mother on Mothers’ Day than what he’s already given her? He’s given her a son who is sensitive and caring; a son who has the courage in front of his peers to pour the oil of compassion upon someone in need; a son who will certainly do the same for her, when her time of need comes, as it surely will. No greater gift than that!

How proud such a mother must feel not for having raised a great doctor or lawyer or golfer but for having raised a great human being. How proud to have a son whose story got written up in a book called Courageous Kids, and who received a personal letter of thanks from President Reagan after he read the story in the Sunday newspaper. Down deep in her heart of hearts, that mother feels she’s done something right, and she thanks God for having raised a winner. It’s not easy for mothers and fathers to do things right these days. It’s not easy for them to raise a winner, especially one like Francis. This we also say today: neither is it easy for kids these days to do things right and become winners.

Not a good golfer but a good human being

Tiger Woods (perhaps the most famous and accomplished athlete in the world) had an Afro-American father named Earl Dennison Woods and has an Asian Thai mother named Kutilda. Interestingly Tiger tells us it was his mother who put in him the killer-instinct which all top athletes need.

In an interview with Ed Bradley on 60 Minutes, Tiger speaks of a very devastating stuttering problem he had as a young kid. He says the words got lost somewhere between his brain and his mouth. It was very difficult to overcome. “I worked my tail off and got on top of it all,” he said. He also got some help from another source: "I would talk to my dog, and he would sit there and listen, and he'd fall asleep.”

The 10^th of February of this year was, perhaps, the best day of Tiger’s career. On that day instead of putting a golf club in his hands, he gripped an oversized pair of scissors and cut a ceremonial ribbon to officially open his twenty-five million dollar Tiger Woods Learning Center (aimed at helping kids find their way.) The only sad note to a day of brilliant sunshine was the absence of his father, Earl Woods. He was battling cancer and could not leave his home a short drive away. Tiger nearly broke down when he mentioned the ever-abiding support of his father in his career. "I talked to him last night," he said. "He kept telling me how proud he was of what I was able to do, and proud of me for thinking of this. It's hard on all of us."

On Wednesday, the 3^rd of May, Earl Woods died of prostate cancer. He always felt it was his duty to cultivate his son’s talent and to forge him into a tough, steely competitor. But he would bristle when people would try to compare him with pushy parents who were determined to produce money-making champions out of their kids. He would tell them “My purpose in raising Tiger is not to raise a good golfer [good golfers are OK]. I want to raise a good human being [that’s better].”

When the sun was setting on Earl Woods and he was looking back at his famous son Tiger (not only a great golfer but especially a great human being), he knew he had done something right, and he thanked God for having raised such a winner. It’s not easy for mothers and fathers to do things right these days and raise a winner, especially one like Tiger. This we also say today: neither is it easy for a stuttering kid to do things right and become a winner.

“I am third”

Dec. 17^th, 1999, was a particularly mild day for December. A friend in his late fifties (a father of four and a husband of a remarkable mother of his children) was riding his bike home from one of the local hospitals where he worked as a surgical nurse. He was suddenly struck by a car, and from that moment on he was quite totally and irreversibly disabled.

Instead of handing that terrible disaster over to some nursing facility, the family took full possession of it through a very complicated arrangement that engaged the help of agencies, visiting nurses, part-time hired help, and especially the contribution of a loving son and three daughters and of an absolutely remarkable wife and mother. All fully committed themselves to taking turns in a 24/7 operation caring for their stricken father and husband.

After four long years of tireless tender loving care from his family and countless others, he died. His remarkable story and funeral were fully featured in the Sunday newspaper. In the eulogy his son, Al, said, “My dad was a special man. My parents hung a motto on the wall of the house I grew up in. It captures the essence of how they raised us kids. It read, I am third. Those three words prioritized everything for us kids. First comes the Lord Jesus, then others and finally ourselves.”

I’m not first. I’m not second. I am third. Al’s parents raised him on that motto. It paid off. When disaster struck, the family motto kicked in. First came the Lord Jesus who tells us the parable of the Good Samaritan who poured the oil of compassion. Second came their stricken father. Third came everybody else in the family who, for four very long years, made themselves third for the sake of their father.

Conclusion

To lift us up

A kid who says, “I am third” is a winner. The check-out clerk at Pick & Save who paid for my groceries is an exceptional example of a winner. The barefoot boy who gave his shoes away on a cold winter day is also an exceptional example. But in a culture which has our kids chanting me, me, me, it’s not easy to raise a winner—much less an exceptional one.

Exceptional people like Vernon, Francis and Tiger aren’t meant to discourage us especially on Mothers’ Day. Rather they lift us up and urge us on. They lift the drooping spirits of those who wonder what they did wrong. And they remind those who did things right and raised winners despite the odds to count their blessings. And they inspire all of us to rededicate our best energies to raising not good golfers but good human beings, who are pure joy not only to their mothers and fathers but to themselves as well.