In a home in the mountains of Mexico there are 22 boys. The oldest is 20 and the youngest is 2. When I walk in the door, they greet me. Some run to hug me, others just catch my eye, and some simply say: “Hola, Mama Kina.”
They are not mine. And yet…they are mine. Each birthed from another mother, yet because of circumstances beyond their control they now live here in a home that I have helped to create. A home created for them.
I never asked for them to call me Mama. In fact, I have fought against it. Not because I don’t care about them, but rather because so many have let them down, abandoned and disappointed them in the past, I don’t want to be part of that cycle. I don’t want to be part of that disappointment.
The title Mom is so great, so awesome. It carries with it such responsibility. And I am so limited, so frail, just flesh. There are so many things I can’t do. Things, in my mind, that are just “Mom basics”.
I can’t always be there to hold them when they cry, I can’t be there to wipe away those tears, to kiss their boo-boos. I’m not the one who tucks them in when they go to sleep, nor wakes them in the morning. I do not lay out their clothes. I don’t bathe or feed them. All these things and more are done by others. So it’s difficult for me when they call me Mama.
Even so, I feel a great responsibility for them. Precious souls, placed in our care. Souls rescued from unimaginable circumstances. Souls longing for love, longing for something constant and dependable.
Somehow in God’s Grace, with all my deficiencies and imperfections God has allowed me to be the Mom, to be their Mama…and I am humbled.
They call me Mama, a name I don’t deserve.