Mother’s Day is this Sunday. And I must admit, my thoughts of Mother’s Day have changed over the years. For the 15th time, my mother will be absent when our family gets together to celebrate her day.
In my earliest years, I called her “Mama.” In later years, when my brothers, my sister and I thought we had become sophisticated (high school days), we started calling her “Mother.” (At first, she didn’t like it, but she went along with it.)
“What’s wrong with calling me ‘Mama’?” she protested.
When the grandchildren came along, we all started calling her “Ma.”
When Ma passed away in 2011, people would often ask, “What was the cause of your mother’s death?”
My reply was simple: “She was just a tired old soldier.” At age 88, her life was spent…spent on her family and her friends.
My first concrete memories of my mother take me back to my fourth year. That’s the year my brother, John, was born. I don’t remember the bed in which I slept, but I vividly remember dreaming of witches at night. I would wake up in the night screaming and crying. The witches would be right up in my face laughing hysterically. It made for one terrified little boy.
It created a dilemma for my mother because baby John was sleeping in her bed. She solved the problem by putting me in the baby bed and rolling it up alongside her bed. I remember slipping my hand and arm through the rails of the baby bed and my mama holding my hand as I drifted off to sleep.
That solved the witch problem. In this wide world, there was no witch who was a match for my mama. That singular experience marked the beginning of my mama’s teaching me not to be afraid.
I have heard that a parent’s greatest accomplishment is to transfer a child’s hand from their hand into God’s hand. I am indebted to both my father and my mother for doing that for me, but I especially owe my mother.
My brothers, my sister and I had the privilege of being close by as our parents aged. It was especially so in their latter days.
As my mother’s life drew closer to the end, I had time to reflect on so many great memories of her younger days - so many wonderful, shared experiences. And as I did, I came face to face with the fact that I was “a mama’s boy.”
Through the years I’ve often heard it said of a boy or man, “Oh, he’s a mama’s boy.” That comment was usually made in a derogatory manner, implying the person was a wimp, or spoiled, or immature, or too attached to one’s mother.
As I contemplated the thought of my being a “mama’s boy,” it occurred to me, “How selfish of me to single myself out as the “mama’s boy” among my mother’s sons. The fact is all four of my mother’s sons were “mama’s boys.” Why, even my sister was a “mama’s boy” (if she had been a boy.) I guess you could just call her a “mama’s girl.” And there is a simple reason why. We adored our mother. She was quite a person.
My brother John, after much thought and prayerful consideration, came up with two words to describe our mother. He said she was “a giver” and “a talker.” And that she was. She loved people…all kinds of people. And she was one of the most selfless people I have ever known.
I am most proud to admit I was a “mama’s boy.” I guess I am still. And I miss her so.
You might say I am in a quandary as to how I will celebrate Mother’s Day this year. I could visit her grave, but she’s not there.
I think I will spend some extra time in prayer thanking God for the gift of my mother. And in doing so I will celebrate her life as I recall the best of times spent with her.
And I will look forward to seeing her again. It’s just a matter of time.
Copyright 2026 by Jack McCall