Gratitude
“Don't
use the sharpness of your tongue on the mother who taught you to
speak.”
Ali Ibn
Abi Talib
Today would be my
mother's ninety-fifth birthday were she still here with us. I think
about her often these days, and with great fondness. We were never close when she was living, though, as irony would have it, I was
the only one left to care for her in her last years. I think of that
as the Creator's little joke and final invitation for us to clean up
our act before she departed. And we did, to some degree. At least, we
became more honest with each other. Now, I look into the eyes of my
mother every time I look in the mirror, and I hear her voice in my
head saying words that I reject as my own. I wonder if that happens
to you, too.
One of the things that
surprises me most is realizing just how much like her I am. Almost
always, we pattern ourselves after one parent or the other, and I was far more inclined to be “like” my father. I loved being a
“tomboy,” doing the things he did, entering into conversations
with the men around him. I learned to speak in the coarse language
that rolled off his tongue, and enjoyed my work as much as he enjoyed
his. I rejected the wifely subservience of my mother, and ran off two
husbands along the way, preferring the freedom of singularity.
But these days, I find
myself doing the things Mother did—especially her creative
endeavors. She was a great cook, and quilter. She sewed all our school clothes, and made curtains and drapes and prom dresses. She froze and canned all the food from the garden, and made jams and pickles to last the year. At holidays, she baked about a million cookies and cakes for all of Daddy's employees, their
neighbors, and fellow church members. She volunteered for things she
could do at home, such as folding and mailing the church's news
letters and taking meals to “shut-in” folks. She always cooked
extra food, because she knew that one or more of my dad's AA sponsees
would likely show up at dinner time. And, when they did, she did not
complain. She served the food, poured the coffee and listened to
their conversation. She almost never challenged my father's
authority. And, most valiant of all, she provided for her
mother-in-law for almost all their married life. My grandmother lived
with them from the time I was five years old, until her death at 87. In my opinion, that almost qualifies Mother for sainthood.
For most of my life, I
decried my mother as a “doormat” and ranted about all the things
she put up with. I thought her ridiculously weak and co-dependent.
And, all that was true enough. But she was also gracious, and
generous, and had the energy of ten men. She lived through the deaths
of her husband and two of her three children, and did not collapse.
She endured through decades of my father's alcoholism, and fifty
years of my sister's constant care, and, though she tired, she never
quit. Her creativity sustained her through every dark valley. I could
never have done what she did. I'm not that strong.
I don't know which parent
you are like, but I hope you will tell them how much they mean to you
right now. Before you say, “I'm not like them,” remember that
they gave you life, and worked hard so that you could grow up to be
exactly who you are. It's a privilege to have parents who care about
you. My own parents were human beings with sizable flaws, but I'm so
glad to have had them. Whether we like it our not, our parents shape
us in ways that we will only fully realize when they are gone. So,
happy birthday to my mom. May I someday match her in strength and
character.
In the Spirit,
Jane
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