The most selfless jobBy Angie MorlanI have so many great memories of my mom, but one that stands out is when I was a sophomore in high school and sick with bronchitis. I think I missed three or four days of school, but unlike most kids, I hated getting sick and missing school.Even though I was taking medicine, I would cough most of the night. Things always seemed to get worse early in the morning, after the medicine had worn off. So, each morning, probably around 5 a.m., my mom would come in to check on me and bring some water and more medicine. But one morning she brought along something unusual with her – a board game.For anyone who knows my mom, she is an avid rummage sale person and she had recently bought this game at a rummage sale and thought it might be fun to try it out.So, here we are, practically in the middle of the night, sitting on my bed trying to figure out how to play this game. I didn’t think what we were doing was strange until my dad woke up and came down the hallway to my bedroom to see what was going on. To his surprise, it was almost as if he walked in on a little party. He said, “What’s going on here?” My mom said plainly, “We’re playing a game.” He said, “You’re what?” All the while thinking, “It’s the middle of the night and my daughter is sick.” He didn’t say much else but instead grabbed his camera because he had to document this unusual event.The fact is it wasn’t unusual. My mom was just doing what she has always done – loved and cared for her family. Being a mother is probably the most selfless and thankless job in the world. But she did it. And still does it. No questions asked.Mom’s handsBy Natalie GowenI used to sit at church and play with my mom’s hands. I’d take my finger and trace up and down her long, slender fingers; twist her ring and follow the lines of her palms. I remember she always kept her nails short and perfectly manicured.I would sometimes sit and watch her sew. On summer afternoons, she cut small pieces of fabric, smoothed it, pinned patterns and pulled the thread through the machine. As she worked, the cloth took shape and became a shirt, a dress, a pair of pants. Then, she folded the finished clothing and added it to a growing pile that became my new set of school clothes.For years, neighborhood kids came to our house and sat at the piano. Curved and strong, her hands moved gracefully across the keyboard. The sounds of a steady rhythm – “1-2-3-4” – drifted up to my room and the constant reminder to play with finger tips was drilled into my head. When my turn for lessons finally came, she repeated the same commands and taught me to mimic the way her hands combined strength, agility and tenderness to turn notes into beautiful music.Sometimes, I dreaded her hands, especially if they were holding a small box of white cards. She would lead me to the front porch, and together we’d sit on the swing. Over and over again, numbers flashed in front of me, and I rattled off times tables until the pile dwindled and I could answer without hesitation, “7×8 is 56.”When I left home, I had less and less opportunity to see her hands at work, until one day when we stood together and she dressed me in a beautiful white gown. She tugged at the fabric, smoothing it over voluminous petty coats, adjusted the train and ensured my curls fell gracefully over the veil until everything was perfectly in place.I watched her and realized how much I learned from her hands. In that moment, I knew she could continue to teach me lessons as I married and had children. Lessons of devotion, service, love and faith.My fingers are slender but short. My nails are short, too, and also jagged and in need of a nail file. But as I move throughout my day, the lessons my mother taught are repeated in my actions. Occasionally, I catch a glimpse of my movements, see her legacy and think “that’s just what mom would do.”My mom takes the cakeBy Stefani WiestEvery year, my mom would make a special homemade birthday cake for my birthday. On my first birthday I was presented a bunny cake, with coconut sprinkled ears, licorice whiskers and jellybean buttons.As the years went by, I was always excited to see what creative cake she would present. My mom would work tirelessly making the cake, filling the mold, whipping the butter cream frosting, getting the frosting colors just right and expertly squirting hundreds of frosting stars from the frosting bag onto the cake. I was always so proud as the cake was presented to my party guests and there were “oohs and aahs” heard around the table.No cake theme was ever repeated. Over the years, I was presented with a Barbie cake, Raggedy Ann cake and cakes made to look like a pack of gum, a hamburger and a pizza. As I stuck my fork into the cake, it never occurred to me how many hours she dedicated to make my birthday cake just right. What was even better than eating the cake was knowing that she had made it especially for me. Yes, I am now grown, but I still get a birthday cake from my mom, and I still wait in anticipation at its unveiling.A lesson of loveBy Kathleen WallaceMy parents divorced when I was five and remarried when I was 13. After the divorce, my sister and I lived with our mother, who now worked, and we siblings fought like cats and dogs at every opportunity.She was the haughty older sister who insisted on being called “Francine” instead of her real name, “Frances” (like the talking mule). She had a collection of Seventeen magazines, which lured me into her bedroom whenever she was away.I was the bratty younger sister who couldn’t resist poking through her Frankie Avalon, Ritchie Valens and Big Bopper 45s. They were like magnets.My sister always knew when I had trespassed, and that led to lots of fights.My mother would get home from work and listen to our ceaseless squabbling and tales of “she did this and she did that.”One day, when I was about 11, I found my mother doing dishes at the kitchen sink and sobbing – just standing there, crying her eyes out.That was the day I stopped being a brat. That was the day I stopped picking fights and stopped responding to my sister’s taunts. That was the day I grew up.It’s not my favorite memory of my mother, but it’s the one I remember most.Mom’s traveling treeBy Judi TobiasMy mother died in October of 1997. I made it through Thanksgiving and Christmas, but as Mother’s Day grew closer, I couldn’t face not being able to do something with her. Finally, I decided to plant a tree in her memory. I chose a flowering crab, knowing she would love the spring blooms.The tree struggled through a couple of years of drought, a record heat wave and even having a couple of limbs lopped off by an errant lawn tractor. A few years later, we bought a new house. I decided to dig it up and take it with me. Again, it survived and last year, finally, it bloomed. I know that my mother knows that and is happy.
