“If today is Saturday tomorrow must be Sunday”, that was the answer I have been giving for the past hour or so as I was rolling my mother’s beautifully silvered hair. I don’t remember exactly when it happened, the last conversation that I had with her when I wasn’t having to answer the same questions over and over again. When was the last time that I poured my heart out to her as I cried, or rejoiced with her and my dad at the end of a successful drama or choir program? Better yet, when was the last time she wanted to go shopping and buy another pair of those sky high heels she was always famous for? As I was growing up she was the best and only friend I had, the safety of knowing I was accepted and cared for after I had eaten lunch sitting in a stall of the school bathroom because I didn’t know anyone and was really not as outgoing as everyone at church thought I was. When I was expecting my first baby she was almost more excited than I was and began to sew tiny seed pearls and embroider pink and blue flowers on the Dedication dress I had bought. She didn’t just stop with the dress and matching coat but we bought a tiny pair of satin slippers and covered every inch of them with the same little pearls and sequins. As I was getting close to time for delivery my mother and I were driving and stopped for a red light going west on North Avenue crossing Peachtree Street, I started to cry and told her how afraid I was of the birthing process. She calmly pointed to the dozens of people crossing the street in front of the car and dryly, almost sarcastically, told me that every one of those people had all gotten here the same way and if it had been so bad all those people wouldn’t be there. Her tone and words dried my tears in a hurry making me feel almost foolish. Having been shaken out of my mood she told me that she had the same conversation with her mother and had been told the same thing. I got tickled at that because images of my “little mama” came into my mind and I could almost see her twisting her mouth to one side as she said it. She listened to me cry and be bitter and ugly when I was in the process of divorce, she encouraged me to pick myself up and realize that my children needed me more than I needed to pity myself. It worked. It just struck me as very sad and wanting to feel sorry for myself all over again as I have become a parent to her and try to soothe her when she asks many times a day when my dad will be home. I want to tell her that he is in the best home he has ever had, heaven, but she wouldn’t remember. She thanked me for lunch and told me I was like a daughter to her, I hope I am.
Everytime you have a conversation with your loved one, don’t take it for granted. Take mental pictures of the good times and forget the bad. It is the same with your children, today they are small and it only seems like tomorrow you are giving them away to begin a family of their own. In the book of Job 7:6 says “My days are swifter than a weavers shuttle…” but unlike Job my days are not without Hope. “My Hope is built on nothing less than Jesus blood and righteousness; I dare not trust the sweetest frame but wholly lean on Jesus’ name.”