In spite of the fact that I was well-acquainted with the great ones of the past (or at least American past), when I was asked to write a paper in 6th grade about my hero, I chose my mother. I chose her because I knew her better than any other person and, even at that closest proximity, I admired and wanted to be like her. I had been able to watch her model the faith of Washington, the determination of Blackwell, the integrity of Lincoln, and the compassion of Nightengale in my own home.
In the book, Standing for Something, (written when I was a young teenager) Gordon B. Hinkley comments, "I feel sorry for today's generation, which seems bereft of heroes. Men and women who by virtue of their contributions and acheviements seem larger than life, and who can be admired for the full breadth and depth of their moral makeup are a vanishing breed."
While I was reading this passage last week, I thought first of my mother, for she was my childhood hero. As a sixth-grader, I was proud to be her daughter; now I realize I should be eternally grateful instead.