The mirror had a gold frame. Not the thick, cheap kind; this
was delicate, lovely, like it was woven together with gold thread from the
spindle wheel of Rumpelstiltskin. That is what my 4-year-old mind thought anyway
as I stood alone in the large, pallid room examining the garnish. The rest of
the room was empty, except the beat-up mattress on the floor. There were a few
boxes full of old pictures that sat in the hallway downstairs—what was left of
our belongings after the violent house fire a few weeks before. The rest of the
new house was like the room with the mirror—empty. It didn’t feel like that
though. Especially at night. My two sisters, my two brothers, and I squeezed on
the old mattress beside my mom—the five of us and her—as she read us stories by
candlelight. The electricity hadn’t been turned on yet, but that didn’t matter
to me. Her rich, steady voice seemed to chase away the shadows and blanket us
with warmth.
I didn’t worry about much when Mom was close by.
Then I was six and we were somewhere new. A new state, a new
life, a new home. This one had large holes in the walls and cold concrete
floors. Dying grass and a stooped, mourning willow tree decorated the chipped
and faded pink brick exterior. I heard the kid behind me on the field trip bus
refer to my home as “The Dump” as we sped by one day. I left for a summer to
visit my dad and when I returned the holes were gone and the walls were filled
and painted over with pretty yellow and mint green diamonds. The spongy, textured
kind that takes lots of time and concentration. The floors had soft rugs and
there was a garden outside. Around a much happier willow tree and tucked safely
behind a small, hand-crafted stone wall lay a bed of mulch with soft, fuzzy lamb’s
ear and chive plants growing inside. Prolific tulip bulbs lined the side of our
home springing forth velvety pinks and reds; the vines that engulfed the front
entrance were trimmed back to reveal vibrant trumpet flowers of oranges and fuchsias.
The hummingbirds loved those and ceaselessly danced around them. The vibrating
rhythmic pulse of their wings was but a quiet lull to the songs my mom hummed
to herself as she fixed, planted, and scrubbed away.
Mom made everything beautiful.
Then I was eleven and we were in Quincy, Illinois. I asked
my mom why this remote little town? She said, “it feels right.” That was always
her answer. Even if it meant driving across the country in a 1996 Buick with
the clicky clack of a small,
makeshift trailer bumping behind. We knew the house when we saw it: tiny,
baby yellow and perfect. Rays of sunshine peaked through the tall oak tree out
front and the lop-sided “For Rent” sign stood near the peaceful road, like it
was waiting just for us. After we settled in, the doors were always open. My
mom let in the most peculiar of people. Brandi was one girl. She had boney
shoulders, big eyes, and fidgety hands. She was pregnant and alone; her husband
was serving overseas in Iraq. When I asked why Brandi was at our home Mom took
me aside, crouched down so she was eye to eye with me, and replied,
“She needs a friend”
“Where did you meet her?”
“At the grocery store”
“But how did you know to talk to her?”
“I just…I just felt I should….it feels right.”
Mom had special Mom-senses for helping people; sometimes I
wondered if she was an angel in disguise.
It was December later that year. We were at church. My
Sunday school teacher was sick so my mom filled in to teach the class. It was
right before Christmas so the lesson was on the birth of Jesus Christ. Mom
brought in a baby; she borrowed him from a friend. He was fat, bald, and looked
like an alien. He sat upright in his rocker with his blue bug-eyes staring at
our class of six as my mom began speaking. She told us God loved us all so much
He sent His Son to come to earth. He—the King of Kings, the greatest of
all—would be born in poverty with farm animals for company and straw for a bed.
She gestured to the bemused infant on display and softly said,
“Imagine, all that love, all that glory…in a small baby who came to save us
all.”
She had tears in her eyes. They were beautiful tears. My
heart felt still like a gentle spring rain or a vast starry night. I knew she
loved Him. This Jesus. She knew Him, and loved Him. Not in a faint or superficial
kind of way. But in the most sorrowful and exquisite kind of way. It pierced my
heart and I knew my life would never really feel full until I sought this
Savior out for myself. That day my
mom endowed me with something of incomparable worth—faith in Christ, The Lord.
Mom gave the best gifts.
Seasons passed. The busy, self-centeredness of adolescence
replaced the naïveté of youth. I began to notice more about my mom. I was too
preoccupied with after-school theater programs or sports to really care, but I
noticed.
Her clothes were battered hand-me-downs of my sister and
mine.
She walked everywhere to save money on gas. Then tucked away
what was saved so we could afford a Christmas tree or groceries.
Her eyes said, “I’m sorry” a lot. Like when I asked her if I
could buy a pair of pants while looking around in The Salvation Army store.
They were on the $4 rack. She said to find something on the $1 rack. I picked
out a belt.
She became really tired sometimes. Like so exhausted she
couldn’t move. Her health was not so great back then. Sometimes we were in
public places and she needed help walking. Her arm around my shoulder and her
weight on mine, we hobbled along. (That one was hardest to ignore).
She made
dinner every night. Often sautéed green beans and ground turkey. I love green
beans. I gobbled happily away trying not to notice that she was always the last
one to eat…if she did eat.
One time I walked into her room when it was dark. She was on
her knees by her bedside with her arms folded in prayer. Feeling the reverence
in the room I quickly closed the door. But not before I saw her body trembling
and heard quiet sobs. (These tears were not the beautiful kind.) I didn’t
really understand why she was crying. I didn’t understand the weight of a
parent, especially a single parent. But I felt sad for her. It was the same sad
feeling I experienced in Harry Potter and
the Sorcerer Stone when Harry stumbles across the dying unicorn in the forbidden forest. Alone in the silvery moonlight he
witnesses the suffering of something so pure, so majestic—it leaves a different
type of scar on him. But as quickly as I turned the page to unravel the looming
scheme of a surreptitious Snape, I hurried off to play rehearsal…and my bleeding
unicorn was pushed to the back of my mind.
Finally I was sixteen and on my way to an out-of-town tennis
tournament (my first one as a varsity athlete!). Before I hopped in the white
twelve-seated van I stopped at the principal’s office. The intercom announced
there was a package waiting for me. No one ever left me anything—I wondered
what it could be! Curiously, I picked up the grocery bag and kept it tightly
shut until I squeezed my way into the back corner of the van. I untied the
crinkly bag. Inside was a box of Cheese-Its (not the cheap, off-brand kind but
the expensive yummy stuff) and a big bottle of Gatorade with a note: “Good luck
Rachael. I love you. –Mom”
That did it. Everything I “noticed” over the years but never
really internalized hit me in that moment. That is when it happened.
My heart. It
broke. I felt it sink and tear apart in my chest.
A wave of love so strong and so powerful entered I could not
physically bear it. This love was the reason behind every sacrifice and every
tear, the reason she gave all she had and still when she had nothing—literally
nothing left to give—she found some way to keep giving. That is the love of a
mother. MY mother. I turned my head towards the window so my teammates wouldn’t
notice the tears streaming down my face. I hugged the Cheese-It box close to my
heart and whispered almost inaudibly, with all the earnestness of my soul, “Thank
You Heavenly Father…Thank You for giving me Mom.”
Now I’m grown up. And far away. But I see her every day. In
the way the corners of my eyes wrinkle when I smile. The way I laugh so hard
and keel over so no sound comes out. The way I pray when I’m by myself. The way
I hug. The way I see beauty. The way I dream. The way I suffer. The way I
believe. All that is just a reflection of her. And she, through refining fire
and soul bending, is just a reflection of Jesus Christ. Maybe if I try to be more
like her, I’ll end up a little more like Him.
…That feels right...
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