Invisible Threads of Care

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted, and saves the crushed in spirit.” – Psalm 34:18

Dear Christ Church Family,

     Lately, I’ve found myself missing my mom. It’s been twelve years since she passed, and yet it feels like just yesterday. We weren’t always close when I was growing up, but in my late twenties, something shifted. We began talking more—sometimes about big life questions and sometimes completely random things. I turned to her not only for advice but also because I admired her. She was a steady presence, someone who had lived more life than I had—someone I could talk to as a son, friend, and role model.

     Growing up, I was often asked if I knew my “real mom.” Even now, as an adult, that question still comes up. The problem with that question is that it erases everything my mom did—the love she gave, the care she offered, the consistent presence she was in my life after she adopted me. There’s a saying that any man can be a father, but it takes someone special to be a dad. I believe the same is true for moms. My mom may not have been my birth mother, but she mothered me. She loved me into being. She is my real mom.

     One of the things I respect most about her was her willingness to grow alongside me. Like many in her generation, she wasn’t raised to talk about mental health. You were expected to “shake off” and move past it. But when I began to share that I was living with mental illness, she didn’t turn away. She started the journey of understanding—quietly, steadily. I don’t know how far she came before she passed; truthfully, it took me many years to give my own mental health the attention it deserved. But she tried. And that mattered.

     May is Mental Health Awareness Month, and it’s also the month we celebrate Mother’s Day. I don’t think that’s a coincidence. I believe the two belong together. So many mothers carry immense emotional and mental weight—raising children, working, volunteering, caregiving—often while carrying their own pain silently. My mom was one of those women. She didn’t always say much about her own feelings or mental health but knew when something was off. She had a way of noticing what others missed.

     I remember one time in my late teens when I was (emotionally & mentally) struggling and living in San Antonio. I wasn’t calling home often, and she could sense something was wrong. She called. I didn’t answer. She wasn’t the type to keep calling and calling, but she left a voicemail. It was simple, but I remember my mom saying something like: “I love you. You matter. You’re not alone. And you need to know that.” That was my mom—gentle, direct, and loving in ways that didn’t always need a spotlight.

     Our relationship wasn’t perfect. We had our growing pains, both of us. But we also grew together. And now, when I see young adults, those my age or older who no longer make time for their parents, I think—Do they realize how sacred it is to still have that time? To make memories? To repair what’s broken? To love in real-time?

     As I reflect on this month, I also think of those who are grieving, who are estranged, or who carry complicated relationships with their mothers. Mental health touches every one of those stories. So does love.

     My hope—both in life and in ministry—is to carry forward what my mom gave me: compassion, presence, courage, and the quiet kind of love that stays. If you’re struggling, know this:

You are enough. You matter. And you are not alone.

     Whatever your story is—whether you live with mental illness, love someone who does, or are simply trying to get through one day at a time—there is no shame in needing help. This journey was never meant to be walked alone.

  With love and hope,

   Rev. Gilbert Martinez