MOM

I had the benefit of being raised by Elida, my mom.  Not many can say that there are only 3 of us who can.  Mom is wise like my grandpa, her dad, and wildly fierce.  She is a tough warrior.  I witnessed Mom fighting for us kids when our dad abandoned our family.  I was 8, Enid was 9, and I don’t think Elisa was 1 yet.  Mom fought to keep everything together during this uncertain time.  I remember the evening Mom sat us on her bed to explain that Dad wasn’t coming back.  She took the time to make it clear that it wasn’t our fault.  That was a long night.  That night ended with Mom saying she’d always be there if we needed a chat.  And she was.  I’d sit on her bed for conversations about anything and everything growing up.  I had an honest relationship with Mom.  I could tell her anything, and I did.  Like when I went to a school camp, and they had a dance.  Guess who danced the night away, this guy.  We were church kids and never went to dances.  So, the first thing I confessed when I got home was how I’d danced.  I didn’t know how to dance; I just let the rhythm move me.  I could tell Mom anything.  It’s the home she made for us kids.   

 

I remember the day Mom fought for my baby sister Elisa’s life.  Elisa was a sick baby; she lay lifeless on Mom’s bed while Mom yelled at the 911 operator, “Somebody save my baby!”  Mom was a warrior, she fought by caring for her sick daughter while raising good kids.  One day I told Mom that my teacher had hit me.  Poor Ms. X. probably should have retired already.  But she kept teaching.  The kids were driving her crazy.  I saw her slug one of my fellow classmates.  The poor girl went down to the ground.  We were all afraid of setting our teacher off.  But Mom was a safe place to turn.  Mom wasn’t having any teachers hit her kids.  Mom was tough.  She showed up at the school office to clear everything up.  I was a good kid.  Mom would tell you she never had to punish me.  There was no need for a teacher to hit me.  Mom didn’t even hit me.  Not that she wouldn’t.  But I was a good boy.  I didn’t need spankings.  I followed all the rules.  Mom showed up to my school all warrior-mom-like, a momma bear ready for action.  My poor Elementary School office staff.  I always knew Mom had my back.  But I also knew that if I deserved punishment.  I’d get it. 

 

During my teen years, I made a decision.  I wanted to be unique and do something radical and different to fit in more.  I had been born with a full head of hair and had the same hairstyle from day one: parted on the left side and combed over.  One day I went to get my haircut with something different in mind.  I made an executive decision to change my look of 15+ years without telling Mom.  Two of the biggest TV shows at the time were “ER” and “Friends.”  I noticed George Clooney (from "ER”), and David Schwimmer (“Ross” from “Friends”) had the same hairstyle: No side part - everything combed forward.  I decided that would be my new look.  Ladies flocked to get the “Rachel” hairstyle in the early ‘90s, and I was the one kid who wanted the “Ross.”  I came home, and Mom hated it.  On the first day back at school, a pretty cheerleader told me my hair looked great.  Score!  That was the day they took my picture for the “Most Ambitious” section of the yearbook.  And forever, my attempt at fitting in was captured at this moment.  I thought Mom would eventually warm up to my look.  She never did.  Once I could get my hair to part on the left side again, I did.  Mom’s opinion won over some random cheerleader.   

 

Looking back, Mom had this special grace, some of that “Grandpa wisdom” to raise me.  I was a unique kid.  When all my friends wanted to be firemen and baseball players when they grew up, I wanted to and was going to be a pastor.  They don’t make handbooks for raising future pastors.  But my single mom figured it out.  She had the right amount of support, encouragement, and toughness to pull it off.  My mom prayed for wisdom to raise us, and she had it.  At 16, I was a youth pastor, and at 24, I pastored my first church. 

 

As I’ve written before, I had a life-changing stroke on March 3, 2019, that left me unable to walk or use my left hand.  Before I knew I was paralyzed, one of my first memories was lying in a bed, trying to sleep.  I was in a hospital in Redwood City, California.  I could hear my mom’s voice speaking to me calmly.  And my best friend, Pastor Eli, started yelling, “Israel!  Fight!  You need to fight!  Don’t give up, Israel!  Fight!”  Honestly, I had no idea what was going on.  All I knew was that Pastor Eli and my mom didn’t hang out.  So, I couldn’t understand why they were in my room, together.  Or why Eli was making it hard for me to sleep.  I was confused.  I didn’t know where I was.  I remembered preaching, stopping, and an EMT worker telling me I was having a stroke.  I didn’t fully understand what strokes were or how serious my situation was.  But Mom was a fighter, and I learned from her to never give up. 

 

When I finally came home, I’d face the day saying to myself, “Okay, warrior, it’s time to get up, face the day, and fight.”  Mom is a fighter, and she raised me, by her example, to fight.  So now, in my house, fear and despair get knocked around daily with the stubborn fighting spirit I inherited from my mom.