It’s time to tell you about my mom

Some years ago, I was attending a meeting with several women when the conversation turned to mothers. It saddened me to hear many of them express anger and unforgiveness toward their moms for slights that, in the big scheme of things, truly were slight. Some had completely cut off contact, not even allowing them to spend time with their grandchildren. Ironically, every woman around the table claimed to be a Christian, and believed she was doing the right thing by angrily turning her back on her mother. I still haven’t figured out any scenario where Christ would find that acceptable, but the words I spoke that night were not well received. 

What they didn’t realize is that it had only been a short time since I had lost my own mom, tragically and unexpectedly at the age of 47. Our relationship had been somewhat tumultuous over the years. Even as an adult I still had a smart mouth, and was never hesitant to tell her what I thought about her very busy life that left very little time for me or her grandchildren.

A few days after she passed away, I was driving along, mentally rehearsing clever comebacks for when she would make this or that irritating remark, when it hit me … she’s dead.

I suddenly realized that all the time and brain power I had used over the years, worrying about how she wasn’t exactly who I thought she should be, was completely and utterly wasted. I was going to have to find something new to mull around in my little brain. Perhaps I’d find something more noble, like how I should be developing my own life as a mother and Christian instead of worrying about someone else all the time. 

The bitterest pill life gives us to swallow is the knowledge of what might have been, had we not wallowed in our own foolishness. I realize now that I had the power to completely change our relationship; not to change her, but simply how I responded to her. 

I don’t want to give the impression that she was a bad person or a poor mother. Quite the opposite! She loved me deeply and once told me that I was the greatest blessing of her life. She was the hardest working person I have ever known, in spite of being in more pain than we could have imagined due to Sjogren’s Syndrome. 

She graduated from college with highest honors, earning her diploma while raising a family and working. She was an amazing seamstress who made most of my clothes, and crafted my bridesmaids’ dresses. She was a truly creative and intelligent person. 

She was also an amazing friend and elementary school teacher, as evidenced by 1,500 people who came to pay their respects, sharing stories with us in a receiving line that wound outside the door long after the funeral home was supposed to close. 

This Friday, April 10, will mark 11 years since my precious mother left us. It happened to fall on Good Friday that year too. I jokingly remarked, “Leave it to mom to die on the same day as Jesus Christ!” 

In my faith, Easter is a day of rejoicing, for we know that Christ the Lord has risen from the dead, and will take those who have chosen to be born into His family home to be with Him. For me, it is also a time to reflect on my actions and not to allow foolishness to affect the relationships God has purposefully placed in my life. 

The week before mom died, she came to my house for lunch. It was a beautiful spring break day. We sat on the front porch and she casually played with my hair while we talked. The kids were sitting on their great-grandma’s lap, listening to a story, and I thought, “This is how it should be! If only she could always be on spring break.” 

Before leaving, for no reason that was apparent at the time, she said through tears, “I have always loved you so much. When you were a little girl I hated leaving you at Grandma’s every day while I worked. I was always afraid that something would happen to you while I was gone.”  

The following Monday she taught a full day of school, but was having severe abdominal pain. My dad took her from the school to the ER where she was diagnosed with rapidly deteriorating Pneumococcal Sepsis — a result of not having a spleen, and not knowing she should have had annual pneumonia shots.  

She was in a coma and never recovered consciousness. I stood at her bedside where we sang hymns as she was slipping into eternity. At one point I asked my dad, “If she is going to Heaven, why doesn’t this feel more peaceful?” 

He pointed across the room and replied, “Don’t you see that angel sitting in the corner, waiting for us to finish saying good-bye?” 

I kissed her forehead and told her I loved her. Peace flooded the room, and then she was gone. One of the greatest women I have ever known, taken too soon. How thankful I am that some day we will have an eternity to make up for lost time.