The Ministry of Presence

When I heard the phrase, “The Ministry of Presence,” come out of actor Shia LaBeouf’s mouth during a podcast interview with fellow actor, Jon Bernthal … I was floored.

Shia uses this phrase to describe his relationship with his wife, how she was present in a time when he was incredibly undeserving of her.

The ministry of presence.

I instantly thought of someone well-versed in the art of presence.

My mom.

I cannot even begin to recall how many nights I would just wander into my parents’ room as my mom was watching some terrifying crime show, and sit down next to her, just so that I didn’t have to be alone with my broken heart in my room. And she wouldn’t say anything, and I wouldn’t say anything either, but we’d both just sit there with the dog, the fan running, and the television humming and a million thoughts whirling through my head would ever so slowly dissipate.

My mom is ridiculously good at being present.

When life got really, really hard, and very, very scary, she stayed.

She showed up in countless ways, invited me to do things with her when I was desperately sad, and found ways to reach me (whether that be podcasts she thought I would like, a note on the fridge, a text message while I was out doing something.)

My mom is my greatest hero.

And one day, I hope to be half the mom that she is.

Even just days ago, she sat with me at the kitchen counter as I poured out everything I had been bottling up. And her response was perfect. “I just want to support you.” She just wants to listen and make me feel heard and seen and loved and cared for. Because, let’s be honest, your twenties suck!

And I think to myself, how many children wish for a mother like that? How many children wish they could have as open and as trusting a relationship with their mother as me?

To be frank, trust does not come easy for me, (in truth, trust and vulnerability are my weakest links) but with my mom, it always has, no matter how frightened and vulnerable it made me feel, I knew my “secrets” were, and are, always safe with her.

Nothing I have ever said to her has made her look at me in a different light. She knows my heart, my motivations, and my aspirations. She’s watched me grow from toddler to young adult, she’s been there every step of the way, learning about me as I have learned about me. She’s taught me that being myself is okay, even when it’s not necessarily who I want to be in the moment. That we were made with this personality, and this color eyes, and this color hair, and these weaknesses and these strengths and dealt this set of cards and memories and hobbies and friends for a heavenly purpose.

In a lot of ways, the ministry of presence is how she’s represented Christ to me the most.

He’s always there, the same way she is always there.

There is nothing that I couldn’t lay at his feet that would turn his face from me, there is nothing that would rattle his love, or cause him to see me in a new and dangerous light. Instead, He waits patiently for me to come to him, to take my wounds to Him, to support me in all the mix-matched glory and heartache.

How easily interchangeable the words “He” and “she” are in the paragraph above. My mom is so similar to Him; embodying His greatest qualities of hope and love.

I wish I could put it into words. What she means to me.

Truthfully, it feels as though these words fall short. I can think and remember and smile at the memories and moments and images, but I cannot articulate them into words that feel right, that feel like justice has been done.

To put it simply …

She is my greatest hero.

I love you so, so much, Mom!

Love,

Elizabeth.