In Her Defense

I patted my mother’s back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. Please don’t cry.”

Frustration had gotten the better of me. My words may not have been harsh, but my tone was. I felt awful. In my mind, excuses pinged like a game of pinball, with lights flashing and flippers clicking. I was tired. I was making dinner. It was the third time she’d called for me in the last five minutes. They were all valid excuses for me to be annoyed, but still not good enough to justify my behavior.

I thought of when I was a child and would shout, “Ma, come here! Hurry!” A minute later, I’d be calling again. Patience was far from my understanding. After all, I was young.

I remembered how my mother would say, “Give me a minute. I only have two hands.” But it was never mean enough to wrench tears from my eyes.

I don’t recall who said it to me that day, but it was as jarring as a bolt of electricity with twice the life. They were words I’d never forget: “It must be hard for her, becoming so dependent.”

Bells sounded. Scriptures flashed. I repented. I would give her ice cream for dessert.

I knew God forgave me, and so did my mother. Forgiving myself was not as quick.