My Mother

Today as I was returning home, early in the morning, from dropping off my oldest child at band, I was listening to my new CD, "The Best of Bread." You remember that, right? Well, this is one of the albums I grew up on and listening to it takes me back to my childhood. I can remember putting the record on the record player, nestling the needle just-so on that first black groove, and hoping that I didn't bump and scratch. I remember the feeling. I remember the sounds. I remember playing the music and dancing while I was dusting the furniture with Pledge. That was my job. I liked to dust---most kids do, I've found. Well, as I pulled into the garage, the song "Everything I Own" began to play. Immediately tears welled up in my eyes. I began to cry, shoulders heaving, head in hands----the whole bit. Why did this song grip me so today, I wondered? Well, it didn't take me long to figure it out. Tomorrow is my mom's feast day. She died 8 years ago----September 15, 1997. She was 44 years old. I was 27. I am an only child. I miss her still, so wonderfully. Wonderfully? Yes, that's the word I choose to use. It's wonderful as she touched me so deeply. She was wonderfully caring. Wonderfully generous. Wonderfully FUNNY!!! It's wonderful, as her life was so great, that I still miss her so much. The pain is less, yes, than it was after the immediate shock. But, the pain is still here, real, aching. The only pain I can think of that would be worse would be losing a child. Which, this is exactly what my grandparents had to feel when my mom died. I feel really bad for them. I remember my grandpa standing at the big window in the lobby of the intensive care unit. He knew mom was going to die----we all did. His broad shoulders were shaking. He was crying. It was not fun to see. As I sit here, tears streaming down my cheeks, nose so clogged that I cannot breathe, I have to stop and remember something I heard today at my daughters' school. This really puts things in perspective, and although I know my pain is real and justified, I also know that I'm a middle aged woman who can cope and know that my little sufferings will make me stronger. There is a small boy, a refugee I guess, who is now attending the elementary school here. I was in the office today, putting together notes for the kids ice cream social next week, and this little guy came in with a "stomach ache." Of course his stomach hurt------his mother has not been found, yet. His family was victim to Hurricane Katrina. This small child has bald spots on his head-------most likely from stress, twisting his hair for comfort. Yes, as I sit here, tears now have stopped. I can breathe via my right nostril. I can know that there are others out there who will suffer MUCH more than I, and this makes my heartache much more bearable. I'll pray for this little guy. I'll offer up my suffering for him, that he will be reunited with his mama. I'll ask my "St. Mom" to pray for him, too. She'll be good at it.