Mommy. You’re eighty! Eighty.

In this absurd, senseless, chasing-after-the-wind Earth, you made it to eighty. That’s pretty cool.

But what’s truly amazing is that in this absurd, senseless, chasing-after-the-wind Earth, you are still going. Still loving. Still walking.

You are walking.

There is no way I can acknowledge the fullness of your path—your scars, your pain, your sacrifices, your blessings—but I know I can acknowledge how much of your walk you have shared with me. And you have shared so, so much.

In fact, you taught me how to walk.

I wobble, here and there. I trip, sometimes. But I get up, and I walk—and I walk—for my God, for my wife, for my son. Because you showed me how. Over and over again.

You taught me how to love—fiercely, violently, with everything inside of me, like a warrior. You taught me that, if I have to, I should commandeer a bus to rescue my son from having a corny dinner. You taught me that against what is right, shame and dignity and saving face are super duper trivial.

You taught me how to repent (“sorry na” is never acceptable, only “sorry”) and how to forgive (“No more. Erase!”).

So I walk. Because you walked. And you still do.

Thank you for walking with my brothers, with my nephews and nieces, with Tito Benjie, with Char, with Max, and with me. Thank you for feeding me and eating with me, for laughing with me and confiding in me, for sharing your home—all of your homes, across time and space—such that you even get mad at us when we refer to it as yours instead of ours.

Thank you for walking—even if you sometimes need an electric wheelchair in the intense Singapore 3:00 PM heat while your son and daughter-in-law and grandson left their bags with you to stand in air-conditioned comfort waiting to ride an indoor roller-coaster.

Thank you for giving us your whole heart, every time God renews it.

Thank you for teaching me Jesus, who laid the path for you. For us.

You have walked a hundred lifetimes’ worth. And you keep going, knee brace and all.

I am in awe—and so, so grateful.

Happy Birthday, Mommy. I love you.

I promise to keep walking for the rest of my life, just like you.

Love,

Mikey