It’s almost universal. Everyone has that one unforgettable “I remember when” story about their mother—the kind of memory that feels so vivid, it could’ve happened just yesterday.

Maybe it’s just me, but I think those memories tend to run deeper with our mothers than with our fathers. Fathers are… well, fathers. But mothers? They’re in a league of their own.

I wouldn’t call my mother the most overtly nurturing. Being near the tail-end of eight siblings, I suspect some maternal fatigue had set in by the time I came along. And yet, there was never a doubt that she loved me—capital L-O-V-E. Period. Full stop.

One memory stands above the rest. I was about six or seven, walking home from school, when I accepted a dare that, in hindsight, only a six- or seven-year-old would think made sense:

“Throw a piece of glass into the street so a car runs over it and gets a flat tire.”

I know—I hear you. But remember, I was six or seven, and my frontal lobe was far from fully developed.

As you can imagine, it didn’t go well. My throw missed the street entirely and instead sliced open my finger. Blood, tears and panic followed. My friend and I rushed to her house, closer than mine, where her mother took one look and said:

“Oh my. You better go home!”

That was it. No Band-Aid, no towel, just an urgent eviction.

I’m reminded of the biblical story of the Prodigal Son in Luke 15. While I wasn’t old enough to demand an inheritance, I was certainly old (and foolish) enough to assert myself in a way I shouldn’t have. And the results weren’t far off.

I bolted for home. My mother happened to be outside, sweeping the floor of the church bus—a story for another time. Through sobs and pain only a mother could translate, I extended my hand to show her what I’d done.

Not a single word—no “What happened?” or “Why would you do such a thing?” Like Wonder Woman in an apron, she whipped it off, wrapped my hand tightly, and whisked me off to the doctor. Eight or nine stitches later—and nearly six decades on—I’m still here to tell the tale.

She never scolded me. The explanation eventually came, but there was no lecture, no punishment. I think she knew the experience itself had taught me enough.

So why this walk down memory lane?

I’m not entirely sure—except to say “Thank you.”

Thank you, Henrietta Juanita (Spencer) Meeks, for being an incredible mother.

And thank you, God, for always extending welcoming arms, and for giving her to me.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Categories: Acts17seventeen

Tagged as: childhoodmemories faithandfamily family familylove gratitude life lifelessons love memories momlove motherhood mothers day thankyoumom unforgettablemoments writing

Pastor Mark

Mark, the eighth of nine children born to Reuben and Henrietta Meeks—dedicated church planters with nearly 30 congregations established across California’s Central Valley—is a preacher's kid who grew up immersed in faith and service. With over forty years of experience teaching, discipling, and ministering to communities, including the hospitalized and incarcerated, Mark responded to God's call to pastoral ministry. He holds degrees in civil engineering and public administration, as well as a Master’s in Theology from Fuller Seminary, equipping him to serve with both practical insight and spiritual depth.