About My Mother
My mother was the heart of our home, but I didn’t always
know that, especially when I was young. As the only girl among three brothers,
I was “my daddy’s darling” and he surely thought “I was sweet.” He indulged me
in ways Mother didn’t, and so I doted on him.
Mother never showed resentment of my preference for Dad, knowing
how my childish devotion pleased him. By the time I reached my mid-teens,
however, I had grown to appreciate my mother much more. She and I easily became
friends as my need for parental oversight diminished, and we enjoyed doing
things together—shopping, visiting friends, cooking and sewing.
One of the traits I cherished most about my mother was the
joy she found in her children. I remember when a woman we knew showed up at a
social affair wearing a diamond necklace and earrings, in addition to her large
diamond rings, Mother commented to a friend, “My children are my diamonds.” And
we children always knew if one of us was coming or going from home, Mother
would be standing in the front door or on the porch to welcome us or wave
goodbye.
As I grew and matured, I truly came to realize that Mother
was the hub around which our family revolved. She kept in touch with each
child, wherever we were, and kept each of us informed about the happenings in
our siblings’ lives as well as in hers and Dad’s. One day when I was spending the weekend with
Mother and Dad at their place on the river, I sat down beside Mother on the
couch, put my arm around her and asked, “What is one special thing I could do
for you? I would like to give you a special gift that would always be a
reminder to you of my love.” Mother took my hand and said, “I can’t think of
anything I want that I don’t have. I know you love me, and if I ever need you,
all I have to do is call.”
Some weeks later, Mother told me that she and Dad were going
to the river that weekend so he could work on his daddy’s old cotton house. She
said, “I don’t know what he’s going to use it for, but it gives him something
to do and a reason to get up in the morning.” That prompted me to ask, “What
about you, Momma? What sort of unfulfilled dreams or wishes do you have?” She
said, “I can’t think of anything. You children are all grown and healthy and you
all know the Lord. I feel like my work is finished.”
That very weekend, on a gloriously beautiful Saturday in
April, as Mother helped Dad lift a board in the old cotton house, she had a
massive heart attack and died. It’s now been twenty-four years since that April
day, and I still miss her. Scarcely a day goes by that I don't want to call and talk with my mother.
