She was not a saint, but she knew the angels. She never obtained a degree from school, yet she had a masters degree in life. Those that knew her as an adult were impressed with her honesty, her observant eye and her ability to make a point with the least amount of words necessary. Her children knew her as gentle and loving, sacrificing for them by giving her time and her efforts to make our home warm, our food hot, and our clothes always clean. She was a small woman and in her later years a frail woman. But her courage was bold as a lion's and she defended her children as fiercely as any lioness.
If I paint a picture of a special woman, perhaps bigger than life, that's not the intention. Her strength was in her quietness, yet given a situation, she had an opinion and she wasn't afraid to state her thoughts. I guess I learned, especially in my adult to remember to listen and find out what I could before I made my mind up. I learned to wait, and I learned to be grateful for small favors, large plates of food, and good friends. She helped others quietly, while almost hidden in the background. It wasn't her way to draw attention, just being who she was, that drew attention.
She was knowledgable of the world, but not necessarily in a political sense, or in a purely intellectual view. She knew people; no matter their title or station in life, were after all, clearly human in her eyes. She would love a child without reservation. She would meet no strangers, but some became strangers after her sense of them became more clear. The less she said to someone, the less inclined she was to make them more than an acquaintence. Yet, she was polite to a fault, and her southern manners were never more apparent than when she enterained guests in her home.
She did not judge a person by their color, and yet she grew up in a segregated world. She knew only the core of a person, and not the exterior. I remember she invited children to my sixth birthday party. At one point I went to the door after hearing the door bell ring. There stood a small black boy, I recognized him, but I was not friends with him. He lived in the neighborhood on the base we were stationed on in the late 1950's. I was frozen in place, when a soft hand touched my shoulder, and then a voice stated with all the grace I could not muster, "come in please." I learned a books worth of wisdom in that moment. She never knew, I never told her how she affected me in that small moment with those three words, "come in please."
My mother grew up poor, a share croppers daughter in southern Georgia and later in north central Florida. I know she knew hunger, though not as a rule. I know she worked hard and she had few personal possessions. Because she learned early in life what was important, she never coveted the material world. Her attitude was, have what you need, and not what you want. She lived like that to her last days, even though she could have had many things. All she had to do was say it to my Dad and she would have had it. I don't know that she ever asked for many things, wants I mean. She liked good pots and pans, she dressed comfortable and she presented herself neatly and without pretention. She owned wonderful clothes, nice jewerly and had fine china. She never asked for any of it that I know of, it was the shower of love she received from my Dad.
There was in my memory, one moment that happened and that defined what my mother was about, and what her values were. The moment was Christmas. I forget which year it was but it was in the early 1990's. My parents had recently moved into town off the land they loved. The "farm" had become more of a chore than it was meant to be, and with my mother's declining health and my Dad's heart surgery behind him, it was time to move to more comfortable, less demanding surroundings. All the boys, including my older brother Steve and my younger brother Kurt, along with their families, had gathered in my parent's home for the holiday. Christmas morning was crisp, and the night before we had enjoyed the dark skies and the wonderful luminaries that glowed in the neighborhood. We had talked the evening through, and gone to bed late.
The children had awakened and now this early morning, presents were waiting for eager hands to open and discover the wonderful treasures inside. We gathered in the living room and read the Christmas story from the book of Matthew. We listened with quiet respect as the story was read and then after a small prayer, we began to pass out the presents. Squeals of joy and laughter, accompanied the crunching of paper and the shredding of ribbons. We passed presents out to adults and they opened theirs too, one at a time, as it was the tradition in our family.
My mother's turn came and a large box was passed to her, brightly wrapped in paper and ribbons. She opened the box carefully, saving the ribbon, and the wrapping. The actual present, a nice leather purse, was inside a box, acquired hastily to pack the present meant for her. The box was a large family size Cheerio box. Momma looked at the box and as she always was, she was delighted to see her new box of cereal and said, "oh, this is wonderful," or something to that effect, and placed the box on the floor, waiting now for the next person to open their present.
It dawned on all of us at the moment, that her thoughts were pure and sincere. She never for a moment thought to open the box and see if there was anything other than cereal in the that box. We all sat, humbled, embarrassed, by our own understanding that the box was only the object holding the real present inside. Her faith and love was so pure that we all were blinded by its brightness. For a moment, I know God smiled and said, "Well done my child, your faith is great."
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