When spring arrives and the first green sprouts emerge from the earth, my mom’s steps grow hurried. It is the season of wild herbs, and she moves busily—gathering, preparing, and sharing them with her children. Among the many seasonal delights, her homemade green onion kimchi is a cherished favorite for all six of us siblings. She makes it faithfully, year after year.
As long as I can remember, I’ve only received this gift—never once helping her make it. But this year, after cataract surgery, she finally confessed that her strength wasn’t what it used to be. She asked if we could make it together. So my two sisters and I set out early in the morning to her house.
When we arrived, we found neat bundles of spring onions already trimmed and washed, lined up across the living room. Fatigue was written across her face, but she welcomed us with a bright smile. I asked about the mountain of green onions, and she said she had pulled two full sacks from the field the day before and had spent the night trimming one of them until dawn.
“Why’d you do all that by yourself? We could’ve just done it together when we got here.”
“I just wanted to finish quickly,” she said with a grin, “so I could relax and chat with you girls.”
She had even prepared breakfast for us—a delicious spread of seasonal greens. As we ate and sipped tea, my mom continued moving about, working while her daughters chattered and laughed.
When it was finally time to get to work, the task was no small one. It took four of us nearly three hours to trim all the onions packed tightly in the remaining one sack. Our backs ached, and our eyes stung. We repeatedly sat down and stood up, making excuses. In the middle of our complaints, I suddenly thought of my mom—working through the pain in her eyes, laboring alone through the night just to lighten our burden, to spare her daughters even a little strain. The realization hit hard.
It’s never easy to stop a mom from giving. I remember once in middle school, I forgot my lunch at home. Later, I learned that, upon seeing the untouched lunchbox, my mom went the whole day without eating. She said she couldn’t bear the thought of eating while her child might be hungry. At the time, I couldn’t understand:
“Why’d you do that, Mom?”
But now, as a mom myself, I think I’m beginning to understand. It’s a love that defies logic—a love that chooses to feel a child’s hunger in order to be at peace. A love beyond what is normally imaginable!
When I trace that love back to its origin, I find Heavenly Mother. Her love and sacrifice for Her children cannot be measured in words. She didn’t send angels in Her stead; She came down to this earth Herself. She walks the path of suffering, quietly and steadily, for the sake of Her children. I think of Her today—always moving, always caring, always giving. And I make this resolve: to be a child who joins Her in the work that brings Her joy.