Honoring Mom

May just seems to be the time when we are "supposed to" honor our mothers. For reasons I will not fully disclose, I don't generally care for Mother's Day. Part of it could be rebellion--I don't like it when someone tells me I must do something. But most of it is far more personal than that. As an aside, it's better than it used to be. A few year's ago I would have said I HATE Mother's Day. Small steps...small steps....

For me, May also happens to be my mom's birthday. Actually, it's today, the 25th. And on this 25th day of May, mom's birthday, she came over to clean my house. For the zillioneth time this year. I tried to tell her it was ridiculous to spend her birthday morning cleaning her own house, let alone mine but she insisted it was her birthday and she could do whatever she wanted. One in a long line, she said.

May was also the month my parents were married and the 17th would have been their 42nd anniversary. That would be another reason to honor her (and dad but we're talking about mom here) and the commitment she had to her marriage and family.

So, I have many reasons to honor my mother this month. But the reason I'm filled with an urgent need to do so now is actually due to events in the past several months. It's because of what she does on those days that have no special significance that minister to my soul, calm my spirit and bring bursts of happiness to my world. My mom is an "acts of service" kind of gal. She has been cleaning my house because I'm not able to do it myself. She makes Steve cookies because he loves them and I've not had the stamina to do it. She painted my house because I can't hold a brush and it was driving me crazy to leave it incomplete. And so much more.

A couple of months ago mom went with me to one of my tests because Steve could not. It wasn't supposed to be a big deal and I had planned to go alone. But she insisted. And I'm so glad she did. The tests were horrific. The pain nearly unbearable. Each one took 30 minutes and 10 minutes into the first I laid on the table with tears streaming down my face. The poor technician felt terrible, she asked if I wanted to stop, she said sorry but none of that helped. I finally whispered "can you please get my mom from the waiting room?" I thought perhaps some conversation would keep me pre-occupied and make it seem as if the time were going faster. A few minutes later she walked in the room, sat on a stool by my bed, held my hand and stroked my hair.

"It'll be okay," she said. "You can do this. WE can do this." And the next 20 minutes went just like that. "You're doing great!" "It's almost over!" I felt like a little girl all over again trusting my mom to tell me the truth and her strength pulled me through. Then we started the second test and it began all over again. "Hey, you're doing better on this one!" "We're just about there!" And then it was over. It was the last of my tests so she drove to the drugstore, told me to wait in the car and a few minutes later she emerged with some pain pills and a diet soda so I could take them immediately.

I said "mom, sorry I was such a baby before and that you had to listen to me cry." She said, "no need to be sorry. I'm just sorry I couldn't fix it for you. That's not easy for a mom to watch." It never occurred to me it would be just as rough on her as it was on me but it was. Yet she stuck it out. I'll never forget it.

A week later, on a Sunday, I couldn't get out of bed. Steve left for church and while we realize it's his job, I have a hunch he would have preferred to stay with me that day. But we both understand the deal. He asked me to call my mom and have her come over. I did so immediately after he left. I told her to let herself in because I couldn't get out of bed. A mere 20 minutes later she was standing in my bedroom. She put one arm under my neck; the other under my back and gently lifted me to a seated position. Steve had done this every day for a month already but this was different. She kept holding on as I leaned into her, tears streaming down my face. The pain was intense, the realization of my complete dependence was more than I could bear. She said "I know it's horrible. I wish I could make it go away. Let me help you into the shower--you'll feel better." She turned on the water, helped me in, then sat on my bed and waited for me. She came to help wash my hair, then sat back down, trying to help me retain as much dignity as possible.

She helped me dress then put me in the chair and scrambled some eggs. She sat with me watching movies until Steve got home at 1. "That's what moms do," she said as she left. "It's no big deal. I'm happy to do it."

All her children are long grown and out of the house but the role of mom has never stopped for her. Sure, it has changed, but in times of crisis, despair and hurt it reverts to the nurturing, protective mother hen. I'm not actually sure it's reverting TO something but more likely something that is always there, perhaps masked by the boundaries she doesn't cross with her adult children....until necessary.

So on this day of my mother's birth I honor her and thank God for her. I wish I had the words to fully express the emotions of my heart. I'd bet everything I have that she knows even though I can't.

Cans of Lysol and a Roller

One of the things I haven't talked about too much is the Sunday I fell at church. I still don't want to talk about it much. But that day one of my favorite people in the world saw it and lovingly stood to the side to give me a hug. He's 100 years old and I adore him--his lovely 90-year-old bride too.

That day he apparently went home and told her what happened. Later that week she left a message on Steve's voice mail telling me she'd heard we had something in common and said she'd love to visit with me if I had time. Because I didn't feel well at all, I delayed calling her a couple of weeks. This is also to my shame. But, almost 2 weeks ago I just decided to sit down and call her. In her humility she said "well, Julie, I'm 90 years old and I can't remember exactly why I called or what we have in common besides both being women." It tickled me pink. As it turns out, she had heard I have MS (I do not praise God!). She does. We had such a great conversation. As a matter of fact before we hung up, she said "it was such a delight in my afternoon to talk to a younger woman. Thank you so kindly for calling." My heart melted.

In spite of the fact that we didn't have what she thought we did in common, she still had some advice for me and I gladly listened. I mean, really, I have no pre-conceived notion that I know it all and that I don't need advice and mentoring from older women. That would be foolish, not to mention contradictory to scripture. In any case, she said "here's the best things you can do for yourself. Always have cans of Lysol on hand and get yourself a roller."

A roller? My mind began to swarm, wondering what in the world she was talking about and I had to consciously push those swirling thoughts to the side so I could concentrate on what she was saying about the Lysol. She told me how her husband brings home all kinds of germs after listening to kids says their verses in Awana. As an aside, I am so inspired by the fact that this 100-year-old man still actively serves in the church. That's the way it should be. Anyway, because her immune system is weakened, as is mine, she sprays the entire house when he comes home. As a matter of fact, she told me she's thought about spraying him too! Totally cracked me up. She said "some may say my house stinks because of it but I don't care a wit. I've got to take care of myself and you do too."

Back to the roller. "Get yourself a roller," she said. "I got mine for almost nothing and it's saved me in so many ways. I can bend over (I'm not sure but I think she was truly bending over while talking to me - as if I could see it) and pick stuff up off the floor and get over to the refrigerator and back to the table without any pressure on my legs." Ah, I thought, she means a wheelchair! Indeed she did. She said when she saves her legs the wear and tear, they work pretty well when she needs them to.

I don't need a wheelchair but I was so delighted by her caring manner that I didn't have the heart to tell her so. I thanked her for her wisdom and encouragement and after some more chit-chat, the conversation ended. That day was such a bright spot in my week and I was truly sorry I hadn't done it sooner.

So much wisdom and life reside within the confines of her frail frame. She doesn't get out like she used to or as much as she would like. My generation is so busy being involved in everything that we easily overlook the simple things we could do like making a 5-minute phone call to encourage women just like her. In return we miss the oodles of wisdom and mentoring she longs to offer. This is one of just many, many lessons I am learning during this season. Yes, it's about my physical health but so much more. I am bursting.