Listen to your father who gave you life, and do not despise your mother when she is old.
Let your father and mother be glad; let her who bore you rejoice.
Proverbs 23:22 & 25, ESV
I'm about to celebrate my 62nd Mother's Day. The first 59 I had the privilege of enjoying with my sweet mother. This year, like the two prior, I will have to celebrate that special day with the memories alone. Now don't get me wrong, Mom was ready to go home. Her tired, frail body had simply had enough by the time she reached her 82nd birthday. If she was as faithful as she appeared to be (and I'm sure she was) she has got to enjoy these past few mother's days pain free, with the reward that she so richly deserved.
My Mom, like your Mom, was the best there ever was. My earliest memories are of her loving me the way that only a mother can. When I was hurt, which seemed to be more often than most of the other kids I knew, she took care of me. It didn't matter that the head wound was suffered in a rock fight I shouldn't have been in, or the cut that I received was from my boy scout knife I was using to drill a hole in my desk when I knew better. She just took care of me.
I remember a flying trip we made to the doctor's office at four years of age. I had broken my arm falling off of a tri-cycle that was originally intended for riding sitting down instead of standing on the seat. I was terrified of getting a shot - for some reason the pain of the shot seemed far worse that my arm being broken in two places - and I remember being sheltered in her lap on that ride with the assurances that I would not. I don't know who felt worse when the first thing the doctor did was give me a shot for pain, Mom or me, but I know that she experienced far more pain than I from that shot.
I don't remember being particularly "chatty" as a boy, but Mom hinted that I might have been. She often would tell me of the time that her best friend, Ruby Von Wald, had baby sat me for the day. When Mom came to pick up her treasured possession (Me) Ruby asked her how she could stand being followed around being talked to, all day, without respite. I feel quite sure that Mrs. Von Wald was exaggerating, but Mom persisted in telling the story anyway.
Mom didn't wear the latest of fashions. She was far more concerned with her three children and one husband being properly attired. She made sure that I used the restroom before being bundled up to play in the snow, and then would reluctantly let me back in her clean house a few minutes later when I had discovered that I did need to after all. I remember Dad force feeding me the things I would refuse to eat (Dr. Markle, the repairer of arms and deliverer of shots) confided with her that this was probably not the best thing to do.
I have often wondered in my adult years how it must have made my Mom feel to spend hours preparing a tasty and wholesome meal on a tight budget, only to have one of her children having to have his stubborn mouth pried open and force fed her hard-toiled meal past screaming lips.
I remember the time my Mom had sacrificed to pay the fee and buy the little league baseball uniform with money they probably couldn't spare, only to have me whine about having to wear a homemade, cut from felt and hand-sewn initial on my cap, instead of the more expensive professional cap the other boys had. Every time I look at the team picture of the guys with their spiffy, store bought, professionally initialed caps, and me in my homemade one, the shame I had felt now is nothing but love and deep admiration for a woman who sacrificed so much for her family.
I could go on and on (Okay, I probably have) but I don't want to forget the most important thing: Mom loved our souls! She read us a Bible story every night, and listened to our prayers every night, and made sure that we were properly attired and in Bible class and at the worship every time the doors were opened. Mom prayed and prayed for her children. She talked to us when she was concerned we might not be living just right. She did those things even though they were not convenient, but because she loved us. In subsequent years I would try and tell her how much she meant to me, but it wasn't enough.
My Mom, like yours, was the best in the world. If you have the privilege of having yours still with you, why not tell her that? She would love to hear it.
And now, with a tip of the cap to Ruby Von Wald, I will close this article with this: Happy Mother's Day to all of our Godly mothers! We do not deserve you, but we love and adore you!