Today is my mother's birthday. She would be 106 years old. I am always amused and fascinated when I look at this photograph of her because while I think it is pretty, it's not the mom who raised me. I don't ever remember her with dark hair, eye lashes,and red fingernails. By the time I came along she was gray and farm work kept those nails to a short minimum. She wore glasses. The one memory consistent with the photo was her lipstick. I remember her wearing red lipstick every day - and I loved it.
This morning when I woke my mind revisited all the things my mother could do. My mother could reupholster a sofa or chair. My mother could make draperies. She could kill and pluck a chicken - and then fry it. She could sing. She knew how to piece quilts - by hand. When babies were born, my mother would knit a hat or a pair of booties for a gift. She could make a meringue pie six inches high - well maybe four.
My mother (along with help from my dad) could plant a garden that supplied our food for an entire year. From asparagus to broccoli to zucchini - corn, tomatoes and potatoes - green beans and lima beans (my personal favorite - creamed please) all went into canning jars or freezer bags with enough left over to eat through the summer and give away too. She grew strawberries and rhubarb, not to mention blueberries later in her gardening career. I call her the first Martha Stewart.
My mother knew her Bible. Not only did she personally study on a daily basis, she taught Bible classes. She loved the missionary journeys of the apostle Paul and dreamed of one day going to the Holy Land. When we were there several years ago I often thought about her and wished that dream had come true for her. While she never traveled far, her love of studying mission work at church took her to faraway lands.
Oh, Mom - I miss you.
I wish you were here to make sense of all that is going on in the world today. You could teach me. You would have a perspective that I could fully trust. I wish you were here to see my children and grandchildren. You would make over them, spoil them, and love them like only a grandmother can do. I wish you were here to talk about the hard issues in life and how to find our way. You would hug me and have an answer. You would point me toward truth and hope. And while I will never pluck a chicken or reupholster a sofa, I pray I can be steadfast like you in my love of the Lord and those I hold close.
Happy Birthday!
