I have often said that I think every mother should get a medal. Why? For being a mother, that’s why. And that’s not at all easy.

     Perhaps the medal that should be given most often is the “Purple Heart”. That’s what they give to soldiers wounded in action.

     Mothers get wounded too. Everyday, I talk to them. A mother will usually cry because of two people, the man she loves and her child

                                                               SUFFERING

     One of the great sufferings a mama must bear is to see her son withdraw from her. Mamas are used to being close to their children. Pregnancy and the early years of a child’s absolute dependency cause a mother to stay real close to her son. Then, suddenly, come the teen years and the youngster begins to move away. He doesn’t confide in his mom the way he used to. He prefers his friends and his activities to being with his parents.

     The other day, I came across a beautiful prayer written by a mother about her son. I know you will be inspired by it. Please read on.

     Listen, Lord, Please Listen …

     Can a woman ever really know her son?

     Could even Mary understand Jesus? His passions, his needs, his secret drives? Did she ever stand as I do at the door of her boy’s room, feeling helpless? Her love flowing out to him in a terrible tide that only washes back upon itself because it can lightly touch and comfort, but never truly penetrate and sustain.

     Is the mind of any woman, even a mother, equipped to cope with the mystery of any man?

                                                               MYSTERY

     My son talks to me often – freely, excessively almost, and yet the mystery remains. I cannot follow his logic, accept his conclusions, accept his conclusions. And however gently or vigorously I try to reason, he strikes my reasoning aside.

     Again he goes his own way in silence – often a silence, so obviously born of suffering that I am wild to share it and perhaps assuage. But grim experience has taught me to leave him alone.

     I am almost beside myself sometimes, God. Why should he elude me, this young strange whom I brought into being? For he needs me too. He turns to me, often when it is outrageously inconvenient, demanding that I rescue him from this plight or that, give him my time, energy and advice.

     And I yield because love him; we are briefly close.

     Lord, what is this emotional tug-of-war between mother and son?

     As I lay it before you I begin to see who almost comically hopeless it is. It is simply – life.

                                                                THE ANSWER

     No. The answer is – no. No woman can ever truly know her son.

     Emotionally and biologically, he is different. The mere fact that my body shaped and delivered this male creature does not make us in the slightest way the same.

     The best I can do is thank you for him and keep on loving him and bumble along as best I can. Knowing that I can’t spare him pain, or hope to penetrate the secret chambers of his being. But that in silence or in fervent conversations I am helping him by simply being here, someone on whom he can depend.

     And this is quite a lot. Thank you, Lord, for showing me that this is really quite a lot.