“Move back in with us until you save enough for a decent house,” my mother told me over and over again as the birth of my second child neared.
 
My little family was quickly outgrowing our rented space, but the housing market in our area was a nightmare for first-time homebuyers. As appealing as the offer was, I kept refusing, convinced that my mother didn’t understand the chaos, disruption, and loss of personal space that such a move would mean for her and my dad.
 
I was wrong — she did. And eventually she wore me down. When my son was three months old my family of four moved back into my old bedroom. My parents made an office space for my husband in the basement, and they converted their den into a playroom for two of the loudest children you will ever meet. They told us we could stay as long as we needed to (it ended up being two years). They greeted us with love and warmth every morning and never made us feel like we were an inconvenience.
 
Today’s first reading always reminds me of my mom, not because I consider myself a prophet (hardly) but because of the way she received me — specifically, in whose name she received me.
 
I’ve always tried to understand exactly what makes my parents’ acts of love — toward me, toward each other, toward perfect strangers — feel so genuine. I think, after more than 30 years, I’ve finally realized the secret: my parents love God more than they love me. They love God more than they love anyone.
 
Like making room in their life and their home for me and my boisterous family, these acts originate in sacrifice. They don’t come cheap. They come from the cross.
 
“Whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.” — Matthew 10:39