Letters from the Heart

This letter, written to my mother, brings out ideas I’ve been feeling for years.

TO MY MOTHER, FOR HER COMPASSION

Dear Mother,

Over the years since my birth, my perception of you has changed many times. It may not be that you’ve changed that much, but how I look at you has.

For one thing, looking at you once meant tilting my head way back, to see you tower above me, whereas now looking at you means tilting my head way forward (well, maybe just a small bit forward). But I didn’t always see you as loving and caring, even though love and caring was the focus of all your energy in life.

Of course you were there when I was sick, in my younger days, and entertained me when I stayed home from school, teaching me to knit (which I’ve long since forgotten) and to sew, which has served me well (like when a hole appeared in my afghan and I sewed it together with dental floss, which held it for eight years until I got married and, several years later, my wife fixed it correctly). You also admired my work, perhaps too much, for you still admire that blue calico puppy I made, the one which you traced the pattern for, cut out, and stuffed, so that all I did was sew along the edges, a total of maybe eighteen inches tops, and in return you have embarrassed me in numerous family gatherings and high school get-togethers by bringing it out to parade in front of everyone, raving about your multi-talented son who would rather not share the spotlight with that floppy blue puppy. Did you tell me it disappeared recently? Too bad. But you certainly got your mother’s worth out of that one.

After I left home, you always called me, no matter where I was, just to see that everything was okay. Not too often, you never pestered, but just enough to let me know you cared, and would help if any were needed. Entering the hotel lobby just after getting my final qualifications (after six months in France), elated at my success, the clerk handed me the telephone: it was you, giving your support and appreciation, and wanting travel arrangements to meet me when I returned.

So I guess this is a thank you note, for all the wonderful things you have done, not only for me but for everyone, over the years. Most notably, for being there, which is often under-rated as a means of achievement, but should be recognized for the glorious qualities it—and you—embody: caring, kindness, consideration, compassion. And love. Most of all, love.

Quality time is one thing—it’s nice to have focused attention; but being there when I fell off my bike, was attacked by the cat, or simply felt lonely and blue—that meant everything to me, then and now.

You always took care of us: hiring a cab to take us to school during a torrential spring downpour, not just for my sisters and me, but for all the kids in the neighborhood; using the yellow cab service again when I was sick at school to come and take me home; teaching me, time and again, to consider others’ feelings, asking “how would you feel if someone did that to you?” if I tripped my sister or put snow down her back, or sometimes even when I was just doing little boy things to the Japanese beetles that swarmed by the thousands to the rosebushes across the street.

Your compassion is unbounded—your whole life you have strived to relieve the discomfort of others; you spent your time caring for others. I think that same motherly quality you had for your children makes you want to help everyone else; it’s kind of a Universal Mother quality which you have in abundance. I was fortunate you were my mother—I got to receive more than a lion’s share of that generosity, love, and compassion. I hope I’m doing justice to it: when my kids lean way back to look at me, I pray they’re seeing some of those qualities directed at them.

I love you, Mom. Thanks for everything.

Love always,


Your son, David

© David Adelson. All rights reserved. These "Letters from the Heart" were previously published as a column in the Quincy Herald-Whig in Illinois.