I’m just now vertical after a much needed nap after a sumptuous brunch to celebrate the day. Mother’s Day. Seems like we were just doing that, but apparently an entire year has fled to the place time is stored. As the years roll on, faster the older I become, I look back through a book filled with yet another new page.
Life isn’t perfect, although the pictures are. Behind the smiles stories live—on a scale, some are shooting stars, tilting it wildly, while others barely make it wiggle. Life is “full of its ups and downs.” But one stabilizing factor in the mathematics of life has always been Mother.
Mine was born perfect. Yes, really. I even wrote in my memory book at the tender age of six, “My mother is my best friend—my mother who knows best.” She helped me have a funeral for my little turtle—with the shell that turned soft—and flushed it down the toilet. She let me watch her bake pies, and how much fun we would have on bright, summer days picking apples from our trees in the backyard. And when I locked myself in a bedroom so I could finally catch one of those flashy goldfish swimming in its tank, she called the fireman who entered the second-floor through an open window to unlock the door my small hands could not.
Probably the best gift she gave me was permission to walk home from elementary school. Not only good exercise, but it was also a time when my mind erased all worries and I could dream. Little did I know that those filaments were the yarn that would knit my future imagination, later igniting stories to write.
She was also my best cheerleader, exposing me to every kind of lesson from music to acting, and encouraged me to believe in myself. Stage fright has always remained a stranger because of the confidence she built in me at an early age.
From bandaging bloody knees and elbows to clucking over me on my childhood sickbed, she nursed me to health. As an adult with pneumonia, she left a trip to Israel to be by my side in the hospital when I took a turn for the worse. Always compassionate, patient, loving, I can trust her with my life.
Now that she’s 94, it’s my turn to watch out for her. I have rules that she tries to ignore, like do not climb on a ladder. Ever. She did slip once while changing a light bulb, fell on the bathroom tile on her hip and hit the back of her head. She got up and drove to the emergency room and checked out fine. (I tell her she keeps her guardian angel busy!)
Although she pretends she doesn’t hear my warnings, she still drives, shops, cooks, and even parades to church in high heels on Sundays. Everywhere she goes, random people will tap her on the shoulder and say, “I want to tell you how beautiful you look today.” Lately, when she was dining alone at a restaurant, an anonymous man paid for her meal. The waitress refused to tell her who it was, and she regretted not being able to thank him.
Setting goals is a wonderful thing to do, and hers is set for living to the age of 100. She even has upped it to 105. And you know, I do believe she’ll make it. Having lived out her deep Christian faith before me, she has always been my example to follow, and I know that God has her marked as very special in His kingdom.
Thank you, Lord, for choosing this wonderful, godly woman to be my mother.