On Wednesday afternoon while still in Crestline, as I chanced to look beside the front door, I saw this magnificent floral arrangement. When I took it inside, there was a lengthy note from the florist apologizing for the flowers being so late.
Steve and Dearrah had sent them for Mothers’ Day. Late, I would say so…like a couple of weeks. I promptly called to thank my children, got a recording, then later Dearrah called back. Seems she had been going round and round with the florist…had not heard from her mother or me right after Mothers’ Day, so she finally checked with the florist, and no, they hadn’t sent the flowers although the charge had already appeared on their credit card bill. It’s a long story I won’t go into, but it had taken two weeks to finally get the flowers to me.
When Rebecca came up to the house at the beginning of Grandkids Week, she had also brought me a Mothers’ Day gift. One of the gifts is this bar of handmade soap. I placed it in a cup in the kitchen and it smells so good and has such a smooth texture that I love to wash my hands with it. Besides that it’s so pretty when I look at it.
During the time around Mothers’ Day (the real one) when some of my friends wrote of their mothers and posted pictures of them, I wished I had access to one of my own mother, but I was in Lake Havasu and our family pictures are in Crestline. When I was home, though, the past couple of weeks, I made copies of old pictures for one of my cousins who is working on our family tree. Since Mothers’ Day had popped up again and I knew I would be writing this piece, I’ve brought to you a picture of my mother.
My mom was a quiet, unassuming, very intelligent woman. When she was a child she did the 2nd and 3rd grades in the same year, and also the 7th and 8th in one year. She was a godly person and a pastor’s wife for as long as I can remember. A behind the scenes person, I don’t recall her ever teaching or actually doing anything on the platform of the church. She was a great cook, and I recall my parents frequently keeping ministers in our home.-
I’m the eldest of three children, and when I was 12 our mother died. She was pregnant ( I suspect with an unplanned pregnancy) and had a difficult delivery. A few hours after the baby was born–a darling little boy named Terry–she died with a pulmonary embolism.
It was a frigid February night in Springfield, Mo. when my Aunt Bertie rousted us out of bed and took us to St. John’s. But my mom had died before we could get there, and on the cold, wide steps of that hospital in the pit of night, my dad said to his three huddling children, “Your mother is not here anymore, Kids. She has gone to be with Jesus.” Donna stamped her feet, and we all cried.
Baby Terry was still living and the hospital personnel took us into the nursery and let us look at him. He died a few hours later.
It’s an awful thing for a child to lose a mother, but I believe I adjusted okay, and a year later my dad remarried a wonderful woman who was good to my siblings and me. But I feel a hole inside when I think of my mother.
I believe I missed her most when Steve, my eldest, was born and I was now a mother, too. I held that fine little boy, and wished desperately to show him to my mother.
My devotional is here.