Thursday, September 27, 2018

The Gift of Parents


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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