Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns
If you think Jesus would have come into your home that day and not issued a strong rebuke to the head of household, you are mistaken. These words of condemnation have been haunting me for days now. They aren’t all that different than the soundtrack I play in my head on an almost-daily basis. It’s…
I am nesting. On Saturday I emptied the refrigerator. Last summer’s homemade pickles in their jars. The bread ends that seem to multiply on every shelf. The eggs. The milk. The fruit and veggies. All of it sat on the floor or the counter as I carefully removed the shelves and wiped them down with…
I’ve heard that life is like a highway. And it definitely seems like that sometimes. The pace of life swirls around me at dizzying speeds. We’re all so busy. In such a hurry. Always somewhere to be, something else to do. I’m a get-to-the-point, get-there-quick kind of girl. I don’t like to waste time on…
I spent most of today in the kitchen preparing snacks for church tomorrow. About 3 o’clock, I headed out the door to deliver them to the church fridge and stop at the grocery store so I could make another batch of 7-layer bars. But my mission was thwarted by a thump-thump-thump sound as I pulled away from the curb.
Yup. Flat tire. Our first on the van since we bought it in March. So, my husband spent the next hour or so changing the flat and familiarizing himself with where to find the spare tire and jack and how to retrieve them.
The kids and I joined him outside for some family bonding time. As he pulled out his wrenches and sockets, I thought perhaps something was wrong. My husband informed me that the jack handle was missing. Isn’t that a necessary part of changing a tire? I asked, knowing the answer. It was, but my husband was trying to figure out a way to do it without. I offered to run next door and ask our neighbors for help or call some other friends who have the same kind of van as ours.
No. My husband didn’t want help.
I stewed a little, wondering why he chose to do it the hard way, to struggle through, figuring things out on his own.
Then I remembered that I do that, too. He offers me help, and I’m determined to do it myself. Then I end up frustrated, overwhelmed and defeated. Focusing on the stick in his eye, I missed the log in my own.
Fortunately for him, he had the right tools to make the tire change successful. By the time he had to leave for work, the spare was firmly in place and the tools back where they belong.
By the way, the jack handle was there all along, just out of his sight in the compartment where the jack is stored.
Sometimes life is like this. We’re stuck, broken down, delayed from our mission. And we work hard to figure out what’s wrong and how we can fix it. Maybe we figure it out for a while. Or maybe we get so exhausted putting that much effort into the fix that we can’t continue the journey right away. Or we end up frustrated, angry or disappointed.
And all the while, the help we need is right under our nose, within reach.
Today is my mom’s birthday. To celebrate, my husband, children and I are going to Shady Maple, the smorgasbord to end all smorgasbords, because today also happens to be his birthday. Although my mom’s birthday came first, in recent years, that she shares the day with my husband has been to her disadvantage. Understandably, my efforts at birthday celebration have been more toward my husband than my mother. I don’t think she minds. At least, she’d never say she did. But I know she deserves better. I didn’t even send her a card this year. Perhaps this will make up for that.
That’s my mom. The one in front with the glasses doing the splits. Cute, huh? She was in eighth grade at the time. She went on to be a cheerleader in high school. (Thanks, by the way, go out to my Grandma and Grandpa for helping secure this photo and to Julie at the Lee County Council on Aging for scanning and e-mailing it to me. Couldn’t have done it without any of you!)
We used to tease my mom about her cheerleader ways. She’s kinda bubbly, outgoing and enthusiastic about things. She smiles a lot. She never really stopped being a cheerleader.
My mom has always been my biggest encourager. She wanted me to “go for it” whenever possible. When I didn’t make the singing group in middle school, she suggested I try out for the pom squad. When I got cut from the volleyball squad in high school, she went and talked to the coach. She couldn’t change the outcome, but she wanted to try. She cheered me on in softball every summer. Even now, she’ll tell the world when I do something that makes her proud.
And those are just the things I can remember.
What amazes me about my mom, now that I’m a mom, is how she did it. Maybe it’s the way she’s wired. But when she had two kids, she was in her early 20s. Young. Without much money. Working to make ends meet. To her credit, she did have my dad. Some in her situation didn’t have someone to share the struggle with.
Me? I’m in a similar boat, but I’m 10 years older than my mom was. For some reason I think that should make me wiser or more capable of handling the burden that motherhood sometimes is. I don’t think age, in that case, matters.
My friends when I was in school always thought my mom was cool, I think because she was a bit younger than a lot of their parents. When I was in college, she got a tattoo, and I think that upped her cool factor with my college friends.
I didn’t see it so much. It’s hard to think of your mom as cool, sometimes.
I know I’ve underappreciated her through the years. And while I sometimes wish certain things had been different, I can’t change who I had for a mom, nor would I want to.
While wiping down our kitchen table, I think of my mom. Weird, I know. But it’s the sort of thing she did after dinner or before, depending on the condition of the table. Our kitchen table reminds me of the one we had growing up, the one my parents still have. So, when I’m cleaning up the crusted food the 2-year-old has left at her spot, or the crumbs from a snack, I think of my mom.
I think of how we would talk about our day in the kitchen while she made dinner. I would sit on a stool by the counter. She was always interested in my life. And I couldn’t hide anything from her, not even the boys I was interested in. She could see right through me. Maybe because it wasn’t so long ago that she had been there.
I don’t know when it happened, but there came a time when she started sharing about her day. And we could help each other through the rough times. Growing up, she was my best friend.
Now that she’s a Nana to my children, and we live farther away from each other, the relationship has changed. It’s not better or worse, just different. And good, I think.
Since my brother and I left the house, she and my dad have been able to do what they missed while raising us: have a life outside of parenting. Vacations, motorcycle rides, leisure pursuits.
When I became an adult (after college? when I moved out of the house? when I got married?), I didn’t need my mom as much. I had best friends I could call or write or e-mail and tell about my day. They helped me through the burdens and still do. I had a job, a life outside my family. Even now, I don’t talk to my mom more than once a week, usually.
But I miss her, sometimes. And I enjoy the times we get to visit.
And recently I’ve been thinking about how much of who I am is because of who she is and what she did. My parents pushed my brother and I to get an education, to go to college, something else they missed out on because they were raising us. My parents are intelligent, driven, passionate people. They worked hard to make sure that the jobs they had to make ends meet weren’t the end of the road. My mom worked her way up in the school system to a good position in the district office. My dad built himself a successful business. They took out loans so my brother and I could go to college. He’s a teacher. I was a journalist. Other kids in the same family situation might not have been so blessed.
OK, so that’s a really long-winded way to say “Happy birthday, Mom.” I love you. And I’m glad you’re my mom.
I hope you don’t read this at work, or before work, or any other time when you might not want to cry. Hope the picture doesn’t embarrass you. And thanks for being my No. 1 cheerleader.