By Moises Sandoval

THE EPITAPH ON my mother’s gravestone says, “Her family was her world.” These words, written by my sister Lucy, summed up her life. She spent every moment of her 86 years caring for, worrying about, lobbying and praying for her family. Her name was Amada, which means loved. I think of her often, but especially in the month of May.

Devoted to Family

Her family included more than her husband and their 12 children (though two died in infancy). When my grandfather Enrique was in his late 80s, no longer able to live independently, she took him in and he lived with our family until he died at 92.

When the wife of my youngest brother walked away, leaving him with two daughters barely out of diapers, she cared for them until they grew up. She was the only mother they knew.

The word “no” was not in her vocabulary, even when my brother Arsenio moved in with his wife and four children in the 1970s after he lost his home and job as a professor at University of Northern Colorado because of his drinking.

But there was a limit to her endurance. One day, after they had been there about six months, my brother unemployed because he could not stay sober, she told him:

“Son, we are tired of you; we want you to get an apartment.”

Arsenio said, “I do not even have the money for a down payment.”

She replied: “I will lend it to you. Go away.”

It was the kick he needed to deal with his problem; he has now been sober for more than three decades.

Amada was from rural northern New Mexico, born on a dry-land farm. She grew up in a log cabin of three rooms. Water came from a well. The bathroom was an outdoor pit privy. They had no electricity, paved roads or motor vehicles. Horses pulled plows and wagons. She attended a one-room school and graduated from the eighth grade.

Optimism, Dreams

She was married at age 15 to a young man from the neighboring farm. In the fifth grade, he dropped out to work on the farm. But they loved learning, had faith, optimism, dreams for their children and an enormous capacity for work. She always sang as she worked.

In New Mexico, our parents gathered us every night around the kitchen table. By the light of a kerosene lamp, we worked on math, penmanship and reading. Before bed time, we knelt on the hard wooden floor and prayed the rosary.

We moved to Colorado in 1944, where we first lived in a shack with a tiny kitchen and only one large room. But we had electricity and, with all of us working in the fields, bought a four-room house a year later.

The parish church was close enough that we could walk there, a great boon for Mother, for she loved the Mass.

Years later, when I came home on vacation from college or from work, she would say, “Take me to the 6 a.m. Mass.”

Empowered by Love, Faith

Looking back, love of family and strong faith empowered us all. Nine of the 10 children graduated from college, earning their own way by work or scholarships. One brother became a permanent deacon. And I worked for the Catholic Foreign Mission Society as an editor for 30 years.

My brother Leby, a dentist, says our mother’s influence leads him to pray the rosary daily, as brothers Tony, the deacon; Ray, a retired teacher; and I do, too. Sometimes we sing as we work.

Mother has been gone for 19 years, but she is still in our world.

Sandoval writes a syndicated column for Catholic News Service.