My Mom - Part 3

Part 1

Part 2

My mom has a Bible that she keeps by her comfy chair in the living room.  Its navy blue case is faded from the years.  The gilt edges of the pages are long since worn off.  Marked in the margins, between the words, and in the end notes are thoughts and comments from her years of study.  Though I have probably had more formal Bible training than she has, I am always astonished when I know some fact about the Bible that she doesn’t.  My mom has made a practice for many years to earnestly study the Bible to know God better.

Mom likes debate.  A lot.  Far more than me.  But more than debate she likes to know what is true.  Is that really what the Bible says?  Do I agree with the undercurrent of the message?  If not, why?  Why do they say that?  Why do you think that?  All these were questions of my childhood.  And adulthood.  My mom pursues truth in the abstract sense and Truth in Jesus, the Way, Truth, and Life.  She is not content to let untruth simply pass by; it must be addressed and its foundations shaken.

Theological discussions were extremely common in my college years.  Typically, it was Mom and my older brother actually engaged in the debate but I listened and learned too.  Mom and Dad both encouraged us to not merely memorize Scripture but to understand what it means.  And with understanding, to apply it.

When we were little, my brothers and I gave Mom an apron on which we had painstakingly painted the words “My Godly Mom” and signed our names.  I’d make the same for her today.

Conclusion

My mom is awesome.

No, really, she is.

I’ve known it for a long time.  Now you know too.

My Mom - Part 2

See part 1 here

Mom taught me hospitality

My dad worked a lot with FCA (Fellowship of Christian Athletes) when I was growing up.  Often, the group of teenagers would meet over at our house for the Bible study.  Mom was always a gracious hostess, ready with drinks and/or snacks for all.  I cannot begin to count the number of times we would have friends come over after church for lunch and “a few hours” which turned into the entire afternoon and supper and half the evening.  I’m certain there were times when Mom was half-wondering how we would feed everyone (again) but she never complained or tried to shoo people out (considering our friends being over often meant another dozen people, that is no small feat).

In these past few years Mom’s health hasn’t allowed her to host nearly as often as when I was a kid but the lesson of an open house still stands.  I love simply opening my home to let people come in and crash for the night, stop for a drink of water, or snatch a nap.  I’ve even had folks come over after going to a movie without me and just assemble to discuss and decompress.  Without my Mom’s early lessons on having an open, welcoming home, I don’t think these things would happen nearly as often.

Mom teaches me endurance

I’m known for stubbornness and refusing to give up.  Mom called me “Bulldog” when I was in high school for the way I would not let go and give up in a tennis match.  Now I see her fighting against ill health that doesn’t let her sleep well consistently, makes her muscles and nerves constantly ache, and generally leaves her continuously tired and she doesn’t give up.  Sometimes, that works against her as she tries to do too much too soon but she hasn’t let it stop her from trying. 

I hope you know, Mom, just how much I admire you for fighting through chronic pain.  I cannot imagine what it is like to keep going even when everything hurts.  You’re amazing.

Mom shows me love

I’m not the best with emotional stuff.  Or with asking for help.  Or with keeping in touch with people even when they live in the same city as I do.  (I’ve talked about this a little in “Burdens Shared.”)  I’m quite certain there are times when Mom wishes I would just talk to her more.  But she knows the spoken word isn’t my strong point or, honestly, even the way I show love or receive it.  So she’s made a way for us to have special times together.  Twice now we’ve been to a weekend conference and I hope that we’ll be able to set aside time over the summer to “hang out.”  I’m trying to be better about actively talking with Mom for fun – I think that’ll be a lifelong journey.

Mom taught me the love of Story

I am a storyteller.  But I learned that at my mother’s knee.  She read us The Chronicles of Narnia and Caddie Woodlawn and Little House in the Big Woods and The Great and Terrible Quest and Charlotte’s Web and many, many more.  And then as I grew older, she gave me good and great books.  Sir Walter Scott.  J. R. R. Tolkien.  C. S. Lewis.  Rosemary Sutcliff.  Madeline L’Engle.  Jane Austen.  Even Louis L’Amour and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.  These days I’m more likely to be handing her books to read, but it all started with her.

Part 3 to come on Sunday

My Mom - Part 1

This post was three years in the making.  Not because I didn't have enough to say, but because I had too much and kept going past my self-imposed deadlines.

Today is my mom's birthday.  Happy birthday, Mom!  As it coincides with Mother's Day, I present to you a three-part series about my mother.

(Mom, I'm going to make you cry.)

You’d think that, growing up with only brothers, I’d’ve been super close with my mom, that we’d be best buds, standing together in the face of all the guys.  Eh, not so much.  I was Daddy’s Little Girl (still am) and I’ve never been much for talking about stuff.  It’s not that we weren’t close but that fluffy, share everything friendship you sometimes see in movies and TV (I’m actually thinking of Gilmore Girls right now) was never ours.  Sometimes, I wonder what that has been like for her.  But I can't change the past, only do better in the future.

Enough about me.  Let me tell you about my mom.

Mom taught me how to sew. 

One of my earliest memories – perhaps even the earliest – is peering up over the edge of a table or desk watching my mom at work on the sewing machine.  She was making me and my older brother stuffed rabbits.  Those rabbits – Whisper and Grocery Store – now sit on my bookshelf, both still with their original outfits.  Grocery Store’s arms got torn off and we haven’t sewn them back on but for an over 30-year-old rabbit, he looks pretty good.  (Clarification: Whisper was mine, Grocery Store my brother’s.  Whisper also lost her arms at various times but they did get sewn back on more often).  Those rabbits traveled a great many places with my brother and me.

And it wasn’t just stuffed animals that she made.  Up until I was about 16, I think my mom made almost every single dress and skirt I owned.  The rare, store-bought dress I owned was most likely given to me by someone else.  We’d go together to the fabric store and pour over patterns to pick which one Mom would make this time.  Then we’d go choose the fabric, matching colors and patterns and analyzing which would look best together.  We picked out fabric to make the boys shirts too.

But every Easter and Christmas, Mom would make me a special dress.  I marked years by my Easter and Christmas dresses.  One year my Christmas dress was cherry red with tiny white polka dots, white cuffs on the short, puffed sleeves, and a white peter pan collar edged with lace.  An Easter dress was a soft, dusty mauve with a coordinating collar.  There was a set of jumpers made for casual wear – one of those was rust and teal with tiny mushrooms in the plaid (yes, mushrooms).  There’s a box at Mom and Dad’s house that is full of fabric scraps from the dozens of dresses Mom made over the years.  I wouldn’t be surprised if we could still tell you what the dress looked like from the bits of cloth.

Somewhere in junior high or early high school, Mom decided that it was high time that I started making my own clothes.  We started with simple broomstick skirts – the kind that is made of three or four tiers of fabric gathered and bunched together (my brothers told me they looked like layer cakes when I twirled).  From there, I graduated to dresses and finer fabrics.  (I even made dresses for three of my friends one year so we could all match).

We didn’t just stop with what the patterns showed though.  Mom helped me understand how the pieces worked together so that we could adapt the pattern to make something new or to tailor it to fit us, not some imaginary version of us.  I have used those skills to design costumes for my brothers and friends that actually fit and look very little like the original pattern.  To this day, if something doesn’t fit right, I’m saying “Moooom – help!” and she has always been there for me.

Tune in Friday for part two