From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Think Positive
Unbreakable Faith
By Jodi L. Severson
Every tomorrow has two handles. We can take hold of it by the handle of anxiety, or by the handle of faith.~Author Unknown
Like most moms of her generation, our Italian mother has mantras for every life event. For medical ailments -- whether a broken bone or toothache, her advice is to "take two aspirin and grease it with Vicks." When something she predicted didn't exactly happen the way she believed it would, Mom's reply is, "I may not always be right, but I'm never wrong."
One of the most inspiring attributes of our mom is her ability to face adversity and not come out defeated. She always emerges with a renewed spirit and infectious sense of hope. Her outlook on tragic events is typically met with: "Hey, nobody died, nobody has cancer; we'll get through this, too!" But by far, our mother's most widely used mantra is, "For the love of God, count your blessings! It could be worse!" And she should know. Four of my parents' five children, myself included, are afflicted with a rare genetic bone disease called Osteogenesis Imperfecta, known as "brittle bones," as are three of their grandchildren. Having children who have collectively broken more than 300 bones would lead some parents to question their faith, but our mom refused to let others pity her or let us feel sorry for ourselves. "Hey, it's just a broken bone... it'll heal. There are worse things children could have. If this is the worst thing I ever have to deal with in my lifetime, I'll take it."
"But Mom, I have a broken arm. Can't I stay home?"One of the most inspiring attributes of our mom is her ability to face adversity and not come out defeated. She always emerges with a renewed spirit and infectious sense of hope. Her outlook on tragic events is typically met with: "Hey, nobody died, nobody has cancer; we'll get through this, too!" But by far, our mother's most widely used mantra is, "For the love of God, count your blessings! It could be worse!" And she should know. Four of my parents' five children, myself included, are afflicted with a rare genetic bone disease called Osteogenesis Imperfecta, known as "brittle bones," as are three of their grandchildren. Having children who have collectively broken more than 300 bones would lead some parents to question their faith, but our mom refused to let others pity her or let us feel sorry for ourselves. "Hey, it's just a broken bone... it'll heal. There are worse things children could have. If this is the worst thing I ever have to deal with in my lifetime, I'll take it."
I, on the other hand, needed a little more convincing. Let me illustrate a typical day in my O.I. history. I woke up one morning, slipped on something innocuous, fell and broke my wrist. After Dad splinted my arm, we went to the ER, and I was sporting a heavy white plaster cast before 10:00 AM. Most parents would allow their injured child to stay home from school for the rest of the day, but not my mother. She scrubbed floors to pay for all five of us to get a Catholic education and by God's grace, she was going to see to it that we didn't miss a day. Whining was out -- and so was reason when it came to dealing with my mom.
"It's just an arm, Jodi. You still have two good legs -- now get out of the car and use those good legs to walk into that school."
"But Mom, it's my right arm... I'm right-handed. How am I supposed to write?"
Protesting was fruitless because Mom had an answer for everything.
"Hey, that's why God blessed you with two hands -- use your other one."
Did I mention I'm now ambidextrous? Not by birth, but by counting the blessing of my two hands. Years later, when I learned that I was carrying twin girls, my joy became short-lived when they were born sixteen weeks early. Weighing in at one pound, three ounces each and just under twelve inches in length, my daughters had a large medical mountain to climb. My mother, by my bedside, holding her rosary in one hand and my own hand in her other, told me with great conviction, "They may be tiny, but they're mighty. Count your blessings." Even after Hayley succumbed to pneumonia and died three weeks after she burst into our lives, my Rock-of-a-Mother was there helping me find a way to go on in spite of my incredible grief.
"I know you want your baby here with you," she said in a gentle, loving voice, "but God must have another plan. Maybe he needs Hayley in heaven to be her sister's guardian angel here on earth. Hayley will watch out for Hanna so Hanna can survive." Mom was right; Hanna did survive. Each day for the past seventeen years, I've looked into my daughter's blue eyes and I've known firsthand that I am indeed blessed.
When Hanna was diagnosed with O.I. and people around me started to feel sorry for us, I replied, "Hey, she's not dying and she doesn't have cancer -- she'll survive this. Broken bones heal." Then I started to laugh... I had finally turned into my mother.
In 2003, our mother took ill and had to have surgery. When the doctor relayed the unthinkable diagnosis to my siblings while Mom was in recovery -- post-menopausal ovarian cancer -- my sister called me and said, "Now what do we tell her? We can't say, 'No one's dead, no one's got cancer!'"
As it turned out, we didn't have to say a word. Mom knew even before she was told, and she soothed us when we should have been comforting her. "Hey, let's count our blessings; the doctor got it all and I'm not dead yet. Let's have some faith." As usual, our wise mother was right. She survived not only this bout with cancer, but five years later, she rebounded from another round of cancer -- colorectal. She never needed chemo or radiation because miraculously both cancers were contained and surgically removed; and she has been cancer-free for nearly two years and counting.
"Faith; that's all you need," my mom says firmly as she taps the table. "Feeling sorry for yourself doesn't help anything or solve the problem... pity just adds to your problems. Spend your time counting your blessings instead. You'll see just how well off you really are. That's my motto."
And now we have the good sense to reply, "Yes, Mom... we know, we know!"
Counting blessings is not just a mantra drilled into our heads by our mom. It's become a way of life for all of us. So much so that when I count my blessings, my wise mother is always near the top of the list.
"It's just an arm, Jodi. You still have two good legs -- now get out of the car and use those good legs to walk into that school."
"But Mom, it's my right arm... I'm right-handed. How am I supposed to write?"
Protesting was fruitless because Mom had an answer for everything.
"Hey, that's why God blessed you with two hands -- use your other one."
Did I mention I'm now ambidextrous? Not by birth, but by counting the blessing of my two hands. Years later, when I learned that I was carrying twin girls, my joy became short-lived when they were born sixteen weeks early. Weighing in at one pound, three ounces each and just under twelve inches in length, my daughters had a large medical mountain to climb. My mother, by my bedside, holding her rosary in one hand and my own hand in her other, told me with great conviction, "They may be tiny, but they're mighty. Count your blessings." Even after Hayley succumbed to pneumonia and died three weeks after she burst into our lives, my Rock-of-a-Mother was there helping me find a way to go on in spite of my incredible grief.
"I know you want your baby here with you," she said in a gentle, loving voice, "but God must have another plan. Maybe he needs Hayley in heaven to be her sister's guardian angel here on earth. Hayley will watch out for Hanna so Hanna can survive." Mom was right; Hanna did survive. Each day for the past seventeen years, I've looked into my daughter's blue eyes and I've known firsthand that I am indeed blessed.
When Hanna was diagnosed with O.I. and people around me started to feel sorry for us, I replied, "Hey, she's not dying and she doesn't have cancer -- she'll survive this. Broken bones heal." Then I started to laugh... I had finally turned into my mother.
In 2003, our mother took ill and had to have surgery. When the doctor relayed the unthinkable diagnosis to my siblings while Mom was in recovery -- post-menopausal ovarian cancer -- my sister called me and said, "Now what do we tell her? We can't say, 'No one's dead, no one's got cancer!'"
As it turned out, we didn't have to say a word. Mom knew even before she was told, and she soothed us when we should have been comforting her. "Hey, let's count our blessings; the doctor got it all and I'm not dead yet. Let's have some faith." As usual, our wise mother was right. She survived not only this bout with cancer, but five years later, she rebounded from another round of cancer -- colorectal. She never needed chemo or radiation because miraculously both cancers were contained and surgically removed; and she has been cancer-free for nearly two years and counting.
"Faith; that's all you need," my mom says firmly as she taps the table. "Feeling sorry for yourself doesn't help anything or solve the problem... pity just adds to your problems. Spend your time counting your blessings instead. You'll see just how well off you really are. That's my motto."
And now we have the good sense to reply, "Yes, Mom... we know, we know!"
Counting blessings is not just a mantra drilled into our heads by our mom. It's become a way of life for all of us. So much so that when I count my blessings, my wise mother is always near the top of the list.