Here we are upon Mother’s Day again, and I suppose it is an old cliché that “my” mother is always the best. But in my case, I believe that to be true.
There is a play that became a movie titled “I Remember Mama.” I remember, too.
My mother grew up in a different generation. I can’t imagine talking with her about some of the things I talk about with my children. But I think I learned so much from her that is ingrained in my soul, and that I feel is the best part of me, even though I will never measure up.
She was patient. She put up with a lot of stuff from a lot of people close to her, but she never “seemed” to let it ruffle her. But I do remember her one time telling me I never knew what some of that “ruffling” did inside of her. I believe I understand some of it now.
She was kind and generous. She never said those little “catty” things about anyone, even about people she didn’t care much for. As much as possible, she overlooked many situations that I know weren’t to her liking.
She loved kids. She completed rearing two of my sisters after she married my dad; she was “Mom” and they always adored her. She of course was the mainstay during my growing-up years. And she was always ready to accept and love all the many step-grandkids along the line. She was Grandma, and she gave them nothing but good memories—they still talk about them.
By her actions, I learned to love pets, and reading, and indulging my imagination. She never said it was silly to “play” pioneer or an actress or “Little Women” or a mom with seven doll children. She encouraged me to pursue what made me happy.
I appreciated her loyalty…to neighbors, relatives, friends. The coffee pot was always on, and she seemed to have the skill of having people gravitate to her to talk, tell problems, share funny stories.
No one in the world could make better bread and buns, chokecherry jelly, pie crusts, upside-down cakes. Although I have her recipes, I didn’t inherit her talent.
She milked cows (by hand), slopped pigs, took care of chickens and ducks, kept up a garden…but all that was the “chores” side. I never remember her looking “grungy,” as I do when I’m doing “grungy” work.
She was happy when I went to college, when I married, when I got a job, and when I had children. That was her highest point of happiness, I believe. She was never happier than when she was around my children.
From my point of view, the Lord called her way too soon. Even during her last illness, she never complained. Only once, right at the end, she said, “I just want to stop aching.”
My “ache” has dulled over the years, but it never goes completely away. I still miss her more than anyone else I’ve ever lost. She sometimes seems “near” to me, especially when I’m going through a rough patch.
My sister told me after Mom’s death, that, “I still want to pick up the phone and tell her something. I find myself dialing the number.”
I understand, all too well. No one in my life ever played such an important part, or influenced me so much. I was her baby. I still am.
So this Mother’s Day, I again remember, and mourn, and hope to be reunited.
I understand my sister wanting to call.
Someday down the line I expect my call to be answered, and a familiar voice at the other end saying, “Welcome home.”