A Mother's Love

A Mother’s Love

“A voice instructor without a voice—how is that possible?” Those were my very thoughts when my mother passed away, and I lost my voice. A profound source of love and support was wrested away from me in what seemed an instant, and ten days later, I could only whisper. The diagnosis was a left vocal cord paresis; the prognosis was a sad, sad heart that didn’t feel like singing anymore. I had tried to imagine how difficult I would find this world when my mother was no longer in it, but I had no idea. While the paralysis never went away, I was fortunate in that a considerable amount of my voice came back to me over time. You can imagine how I was reminded of a mother’s love when I saw, in the New York Times, a picture of Michael Phelps face maybe an inch from his mother’s— sharing the heady delight of what he was just beginning to accomplish at the 2008 Olympics. This picture brought tears to my eyes the minute I saw it. This young man, who conducted himself beautifully as the whole world watched was suddenly—for the moment this photographer captured this picture—not the Olympic champion, but the little boy who grew up to be the loving son of Debbie Phelps.

I don’t know Michael Phelps personally—what I know of him is through watching him compete and hearing about him and his unprecedented accomplishments on television, and reading about him in newspapers and magazines. I didn’t realize that, as a child, he had been diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder until I heard it discussed in an Olympics in-depth interview with his mother and him. But this picture of him with his mother speaks volumes about who he has become, and why.

I struggle with the notion of destiny. Destiny somehow implies predetermination, and if that were the case, I expect a lot of us might sit around waiting to see what becomes of us, or how we “turn out.” But somehow, that Michael Phelps came to the Olympics and won a gold medal in all eight categories he competed in seems to be a part of his destiny. The race in which he appeared to come in second (to the naked eye)—he won that too. I expect that he set out to win those races for himself—that it was a matter of focus, concentration, innate ability coupled with acquired athleticism and skill, as well as personal and professional pride. But—in that photo, you see both the ferocity and the quiet beauty of what love can do to a person, and for a person. Because Debbie Phelps never gave up on her son, Michael, he learned to never give up on himself. And that picture says it all. A part of Michael Phelps greatness—the part that supercedes his sheer swimming prowess—comes from his Mother’s loving him, loving him, loving him. And how beautiful it is to be able to see that in this picture: Michael Phelps looking into the loving eyes and face of the person who believed he could do whatever he set his mind to.

What is particularly moving to me about the Olympics is the ability of every country to put aside its differences and come together peacefully and celebrate the ability of athletes from all over the world. For a few weeks, we share a global humanity that seems to elude us at other times. And—while the Olympic motto remains “faster, higher, stronger,” I’m more taken with the sadly outdated ritual of the winner being presented a crown of olive leaves, with the olive branch signifying hope and peace. In the case of Michael Phelps, it appears that the greatest feat in Olympic history was realized because a human being learned to never give up on himself. While it’s clear from the televised coverage that Michael Phelps shares his Olympic accomplishment with his sisters and his mother, it appears Debbie Phelps understands where greatness comes from. She created an environment where her son would learn—a home where greatness found its beginnings in love.