A Mother’s Love Warms Hearts

I remember, as many of you may, watching the first snowfall each year. As a child, it was a miracle to see the pure, white delicate flakes floating from the sky. Remember catching the flakes on your tongue or watching them stick to the window? Each flake created a pattern — uniquely beautiful and simple.

As the flakes covered the sidewalk and roads, the world outside turned into a winter playground. The flakes growing into piles brought visions of the possibilities: snowball fights, snowmen, forts and angels — the kind made by laying in the snow and moving both arms and legs.

Mom had all the qualities of a delicate snowflake. She drifted into a room and brought smiles and wonderment. Her purity was shared daily in her values, honesty, and friendship. For instance, most of us would pocket the spare change if a store made an error in our favor, but not Mom. I remember once she called the store after she got home and recognized the error. She explained the mistake to the manager and then made a special trip back to correct the error by returning the money. In her youth, she worked as a bank teller and knew the consequences of a short till. She didn’t want to get the cashier in trouble.

Mom was so delicate. This gave Dad his mission in life to be by her side. As small children, my brother and I watched him carry her from couch to bed when her arthritis restricted her mobility. We witnessed him vicariously share her pain in an attempt to take it away from her. It became a family joke that if Mom got sick, Dad would experience copy-cat symptoms. I’ve heard stories that he had labor pains.

“True story,” I’ve heard him repeat more than once. Daddy dyed and curled Mom’s hair, carried her purse, coated her lips with Vaseline, rubbed her feet and held her hand. He was a real man.

Though she was delicate, Mother held the strength of thousands. Sometimes this was because she was constantly supported by friends and family and other times because she believed that kindness could change the world. However, what amazed me was her strength coupled with the drive to maintain a positive attitude. The times we heard her complain of pain — the few times — she always added, “But there are so many worse than me.”

Memories of her compassion prompt a smile. I remember a time when we were shopping at Walmart. Mom drove an automatic wheelchair, used oxygen, lived with arthritis pain, fought with a low battery on her hearing aid, had developed an infection in her mouth, and was waiting to heal so she could have another operation. With amazement and admiration, I heard her comment when an elderly lady walked slowly by with a walker, “Poor dear. Some people have such a difficult time.” She modeled for others how to find joy in the moment and reminded everyone to appreciate life because it can always be worse.

Another memory I cherish occurred when Dad paid me a compliment. We were standing in the hall of our temporary apartment in Denver, Colorado, while Mom recuperated in the hospital after another surgery. I had been up all night at the hospital, gone home to sleep for three hours, ate a bowl of soup, and was returning to sit beside Mom. I had not changed the clothes that I had slept in the night before, wore no makeup, my eyes were swollen, and my hair was barely combed. Dad glanced at me and said, “You’re beautiful.” At my worst, Dad saw traces of Mom, a beautiful woman who was the love of his life. I couldn’t imagine a better compliment.

Mom never left home without being perfectly groomed. She smelled fresh and didn’t wear more than a touch of makeup — she didn’t need it. She modeled the importance of carrying yourself with pride. In fact, she believed the way Dad looked was a reflection on her, so she laid out his clothes each morning and assessed his appearance before they ever stepped outside the house.

Anyone who ever spent any time with my parents experienced laughter. At the most frustrating, saddest, and happiest times, they laughed. Mom understood that laughter makes the touch times tolerable.

One day after surgery, when Mom was extremely weak and wished to move from the bed to a chair, a male nurse assisted her. With her arms around his neck, face to face, she began humming and asked if he would like to dance. Watching Dad try to tie the back of her hospital gown as she did a two-step recalled scenes from the TV show, I Love Lucy, reminding me of times Ricky Ricardo scurried behind his wife trying to cover her chaos.

— Excerpt from Laughter Makes the Tough Times Tolerable by Brenda Mahler.

At her funeral, there were tears, but they were mixed with laughter. We knew if Mom sat beside us, she would find a reason to laugh.

As I watch the last of the snow melt in the Idaho mountains, I’ve been thinking of Mom. The adjectives that describe snowfall apply to Mom: pure, innocent, delicate, unique, beautiful and playful. When a snowflake melts, it leaves behind a teardrop, and the moisture brings the flowers of spring. One snowflake melted, but she left us with flowering memories.

I grieved when Mom died but believe she is watching over us and listening for she can now hear clearly, breathes easily, and rests without pain. I believe she even jitterbugs effortlessly. Mom’s funeral was on my birthday and though it brought sadness, I was honored to share it with the most important woman who ever touched my life. Mother’s Day is only a few weeks away and I look forward to the opportunity to revive memories and plan to set aside a moment to laugh.