I can remember several quotes from my mother:
“I’m going to tell your dad when he gets home.”  That was her last threat before I finally succumbed to her obedience.
“Stop pulling the head off of your littler sister’s doll.”

My mother had a very difficult childhood.  Born during the Great Depression, her family was extremely poor.  She wore dresses made from flour sacks given by the government to the very poor.  They had very little food, no shoes, a shack of a house, and a father who was both a criminal and an alcoholic.  I would say anyone who survived that was a very strong person.

She could have been resentful to the schoolmates who ridiculed her clothes or the father who provided practically nothing for the family.  She recalled having to put rocks in the fireplace before bed, so they could place them at the foot of the bed to keep their feet warm in the winter.

In the 8th grade, she dropped out of school to get a job to feed the family.  Her mother, we called Granny, was an illiterate American Indian woman who was constantly abused by her husband.  My mom was the protector and provider for her mother and three younger brothers, a shield between them and her abusive and violent father.

No one could expect a normal person to survive this upbringing.  People use one tenth of these circumstances to become drug addicts, prostitutes, derelicts, abusive, or just out right crazy.  My mom had a grandmother who loved her, believed in her, and took her to church.  There she found Jesus.  He was the very person who saved her life and sanity.  Bessie Lee – my mom – was kind, sweet, giving, blessing, and somewhat simple and naïve; but she was the most accepting person you’d ever meet.

Now I am not saying she was without flaws.  I referred to her as my travel agent, because she sent me on so many guilt trips.  But, hey, look who she raised – me!! . . .  and my two sisters.  To imagine I was easy to raise would take an imagination as large as Mount Everest.  I was a cute, bashful, and terrifying little cuss.  Yes, I did pull the head off of my little sister’s doll as well as the arms and legs.  I often heard my sister saying, “Mom, he did it again.”  Oh, I guess I was ornery.  But when I think back to the nights when I was sick, my mom came and sat by my bed, placed a washcloth on my forehead, and held my hand.  She was the best medicine there was.

To my wife and sons, she was great.  The boys thought her a little naïve but so loveable.  I remember the day Sarah and I were called to the hospital.  Mom had cancer, and it had morphed into consuming her organs.  The doctor said death was imminent.  We sat by her bed, and I held her hand just as she had done.

She looked at me knowing death was imminent and said, “Mike, I am scared about dying.”  I asked her if she wanted me to call a chaplain.

She said, “No son, you’re my pastor.”  I told her that there was nothing to fear.  She would close her eyes, and when she opened them, she would see Jesus.

And He would give her a great big hug and say, “Welcome home, Bessie.”  She smiled and went to sleep.

Some days it dawns on me that my mother is gone.  I really miss her, and man, no one can make fried chicken and meatloaf like her.  If you have a good mom, be thankful for her, praise God for her, tell her that you love her.  Someday, like mine, she will be gone.

Have a great Mother’s Day.

– Written by Pa

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