She and I had been to a church service and she was driving us home, both weary and hungry and needing an afternoon nap. I kept looking at her, touching her, amazed she was with me - breathing, laughing, alive.
The dream took on an Alice in Wonderland quality, featuring exploding-with-color scenery and animals acting like people. The seasons were overlapping, so even as purple crocuses, lemon-yellow daffodils, and red-lipstick tulips were reaching for the sun, the leaves on the trees were scarlet and sunset-orange, just starting their final flight to the earth.
As we were driving and chatting we saw three cats, holding paws, rise as one on their hind legs so they could practice walking upright. They were having so much fun, we laughed in delight at their attempt to be human. I grasped my Mom's hand and told her these were precious moments. I didn't know how much time we had left and wanted to burn every image into my memory forever.
She smiled at me, her sky-blue eyes shining with understanding. A Mother's love never dies...
I woke up to my husband's laughter. My Mom's best friend was on the phone, calling to celebrate the day. It was my Mom's birthday today. She would have been 84. She lived life with such zeal and zest, I expected her to live into her 90s. I needed her to live into her 90s...
She would call every Sunday afternoon and we would talk and laugh about our week. Now Sundays are never quite 'right' anymore. When she visited us, our kitchen would magically transform from grungy to spotless, all the holes in our clothes would be mended, and we would cook lavish meals for the simple joy of doing it together.
What I miss most is the mind-reading. She could tell how I was feeling even though we lived 800 kilometers apart. She would phone (on days that weren't Sundays) to ask what was wrong. We were so close, we felt each others pain. Just as now, I get glimpses of her joy...
My best friend grew up eating my Mom's perisky and asked my Mom to design her shining, satin wedding gown. Wendy wrote me this poem shortly after my Mom died. Through it she captured the trinity of our relationship - my Mom and I and He - her love for her Lord and her love for me.
Her work-weathered hands
Held yours, smooth, young,
And His, work-weathered, too,
Enfold the both of you.
His hand in hers,
And hers in His,
Over the dark face of the water
Smoothed to ripples
Peace, be still, my daughter!
And hers in His
Intertwined like careful stitching
Her heart on fire inside.
Her plans in His
And His in hers.
Deft fingers weed neat rows of sod
And seeds planted deep within you
Burst their casings, stretching up to God.
His garden well-tended.
Her work in Him
And His in her
Her pastry-floured hands
And His, wood worker rough,
lift her gently to her
Her eyes shine in His
And His in hers
they reach the sky
sunsets in your favorite colors
Her whispers in His ear
Carry soft prayers,
Comfort in the night
Her hands softly stroke your shining hair.
It won't be long now,
Can't you smell the fresh cut timber?
Her work-weathered hands
Will reach for yours, smooth and young,
And His, work-weathered, too
Will enfold both of you
I can hardly wait to enfold her work-weathered hands in my own again!
Do you treasure the moments you have with your Mother? What special memories do you have of her if she is gone?