A Mother's Day Re-visited

I tried to do a happy post for Mother's Day, really I did.  And I really am happy each Mother's Day.  I love going to church on this Sunday and watch mothers - the new with their toddlers to teenagers - and the older ones with adult children home from far away places.  I see the smile on a young mother's face as she holds her children just a little bit tighter and is a little more tolerant of their fidgety behavior on this day.  I see the joy on the faces of the older mothers as they beam with pride to have their children and grandchildren at her side.  I am one of those.

I love spending the afternoon with my two daughters and their families and watching the love and laughter in their homes.  I marvel at what wonderful mother's they are - each of them adored by their own children.  I always enjoy the thoughtful gifts my girls give me and the sweet conversations that we share.  It reminds me of the sweet conversations I shared with my mother.  I am proud of the men that they've married who treat them with love and respect.

But my happiness on this day is always tinged with sadness.  A nagging little sadness that has defined each of my Mother's Days since 1988.  Was this the first year that I lost my mother?  No, she passed away three years earlier.  I wrote this story last year and posted it on my blog, but since this story not only defines my Mother's Days, it also defines who I am, I will re-post it below.  No Mother's Day ever ends without this story being forefront in my mind.  And those of you who have read this before, please bear with me as I re-visit it once again.

A re-post from Mother's Day, 2011 - May 8th

The kiss of a Dad on Mother's Day

Today is May 8, 2011 - Mother's Day.  Mother's Day also fell on May 8th in 1988 and on less than a handful of May the 8th's since.   I remember that year well.  My girls were thirteen and nineteen and I had been hearing sounds of pots and pans and laughter as I lay in bed trying to catch a few more winks of sleep.  Ahh, the sweet sounds of breakfast in the making.  The phone rang and I picked it up on the second ring knowing who was on the other end.  Mother's Day was a lonely, sentimental day for my Dad, having lost my mother, his wife of sixty years three years earlier - the mother of his seven children - his best friend.

"Good morning, Daddy", I said, without even waiting for him to say anything.  He laughed, thinking it was funny that he didn't have to identify himself.  "Can you come over and help me pick your mother's peonies to put on her grave this morning?".  "Sure", I said, "can I wait until I have breakfast?", but knowing full well what he would say.  "Come on now, if you don't mind.  You can eat breakfast later".   At eighty-five, Dad had earned the right to ask pretty much what he pleased.

I quickly dressed, told the kids to put breakfast on hold and drove the mile to my Dad's farm.  As we cut the peony stems, we talked about mom and how much we missed her.  We talked about her love of flowers and how she especially loved peonies and enjoyed sharing the tubers each Fall with her friends so they could enjoy their own come Spring.   I arranged them with other greenery in a large metal flower basket that Dad had saved from Mom's funeral flowers.  They did look lovely as we placed them on Mom's grave at our church a few minutes later.   Dad and I shared a few tears as we held hands and prayed over Mother's grave, all the while imagining her smiling down at us from heaven.

A couple of hours later we all sat in the family church pew and shared worship together.  Daddy gave my girls their customary juicy fruit chewing gum and a kiss, and then turned to give me a kiss and wish me a happy Mother's Day as we left church.  "Girls, be good to your mother", he said.

That was the last kiss I ever received from my Dad.  He was killed in a car accident the next day, May 9, 1988.  Mother's Day always holds bittersweet memories for me.  A day when I celebrate my memories of my beautiful mother and a day that I mourn the loss of my sweet Daddy.   A few month's back, I found my youngest daughter's first Bible on a bookshelf in the library.  I opened it up and tucked away in it's pages was a piece of cellophane with something flattened inside.  It was labeled "the last piece of chewing gum Grandpa Carter gave me".  My girls had loved their grandpa with all their heart.  I left it where it was, closed the Bible back up, and cried - wishing we could all hold his hand and pray one last time.  But then I smiled as I imagined the two of them, holding hands in heaven still sharing the love they had here on earth for over sixty years.  Happy Mother's Day Mom.... and Daddy, please take good care of your best friend.