Today, July 26th, is my mom’s birthday. She’s been gone for several years now, but if she were still alive, she’d be 101. I seem to miss her
more as time passes. Maybe because I’m at the age she was when I was a young adult pursuing my own life and not worrying much about anyone else. So many times, I stop and think of what she was going through at my current age.
By the time she was my age, she’d been a widow for eight years. After 40 years of being a mother/homemaker, she suddenly had to figure out what kind of work she was qualified for and find a job.
My siblings and I remember Mom being either in the kitchen or in the basement doing laundry. With six children and no dishwasher or clothes dryer, Mom spent most of her time in those two places. She often complained of her feet hurting, which is not surprising considering all the hours she spent standing on hardwood or concrete flooring. Now when my plantar fasciitis bothers me, I think of her and wish I’d been more sympathetic.
I was never embarrassed when she took my arm while we were walking, saying it helped her balance. And when she asked me to thread a needle for her, I was happy to oblige. But now when I notice my balance isn’t what it used to be and when I spend five minutes getting the light and the needle just right so I can get the end of the thread through that tiny hole, I think of Mom.
After I finished college, I took a job across the country, excited to explore the big wide world out there. Mom drove me to the airport, and we’d planned to spend an hour or so together before my plane left. (This was before security checks when family and friends were still allowed to accompany passengers to the gate.) But when I checked in, I was asked if I’d care to get on an earlier flight that was leaving soon. I jumped at the chance, eager to head into my future. But Mom’s crestfallen look still haunts me. We never got to spend that time together. I wish I could go back and refuse that earlier flight, spend time with her one-on-one, and let her know how much I miss her. And yet, when my son left for Marine boot camp, when we left my daughter and younger son at college, I thought of Mom and tried hard to give my kids the freedom to spread their wings the way she did for me.
Age took its toll. I remember the first year she forgot my birthday. And then a few years later, on my birthday, she entered the hospital for the last time. Three more days and she took her last earthly breath. I wasn’t there. But in a way, it felt as if I’d lost her well before that. She spent her last years in a nursing home in the town where I grew up, a thousand miles from where I lived. I tried to call each week, but my call had to go through the cordless phone on the nurse’s station, and they rarely had time to make sure she was keeping the receiver squarely on her ear. If she had her hearing aids in. It became harder and harder to carry on any kind of conversation, and eventually it seemed useless to even try calling.
Each of us kids knew without a doubt that she loved us. Now when I look in the mirror, I see more and more of her. And when I tell myself I don’t like a certain food, I hear her telling me, “Well, you can learn to like it.” Not in a commanding way, but in an informative, encouraging way.
Most precious of all, Mom left a legacy of faith. She loved reading the Bible and singing the old hymns. Whenever I sing one, I hear her alto harmony joining in. I’m thankful that her last breath on earth was her first breath of eternity. One day, after I greet my Savior, she’ll be the first person I look for. And I won’t have to miss her again for all eternity.
