Mother's Day Memory

My Mama at my daughter's wedding.

On this Mother’s Day we pause—we ought to stop for a long time—but mostly we pause. We remember Mama. I know some were lousy Mothers and some couldn’t do the job. And I know that some crippled their kids. I know all that.

But I also know that out there are Mamas aplenty who have given much, much more than life for their children. So I am glad that  in 1908 Annas Jarvis held a memorial for her mother at a Methodist church in West Virginia. She gave our country this gift of honoring all our mothers. By 1911 all the states were celebrating this special day. And in 1914 President Woodrow Wilson signed a proclamation setting aside the second Sunday in May as Mother’s Day.

But enough of history. Mother’s Day is really about the heart. Good or bad the word mother brings upon all kinds of memories and emotions. Christopher Buckley wrote a memoir in which he said, “When you lose Mum and Pup you are an orphan. But you also lose the true keeper of your memories, your triumphs, your losses. Your mother is a scrapbook for all your enthusiasms. She is the one who validates and the one who shames, and when she’s gone, you are alone in a terrible way.” 

Yes and no, Mr. Buckley. We really are not alone when our Mother’s die—for good or bad they are forever locked in our hearts. And like other griefs, at the strangest times—the smell of a flower, a woman you saw in the Grocery store who looks so much liked your Mother—the grief surges back. You thought all that was over. 

You do feel like an orphan. Like the old song: “a motherless child…” But Mother’s Day is a time for dusting off old memories and remembering. After my Mother died—we had the sad duty of cleaning out her little house. There are few harder tasks than this. But when I opened up her Cedar chest at the foot of her bed—it was like an archeological dig. The things she saved just blew me away. Of course there are brand-new gowns she had saved “when she went to the hospital” and towels she never had used. But all those other things just sent me back through the years. 

There was my old high school scrap book. Filled with Valentine cards for the fifth grade. There were report cards she had saved. I found letters I had written her while I was in college. There was a picture of a little boy about five years old with curly hair.  Me. But my heart turned over when I read her handwriting on the back: “This is Roger. He is 5 year old.” After many years I was the first of two boys to come along. And she never thought she could have children. And I was her first—and she was always proud. I must underline that word: proud. She gave me the gift of delight. Just knowing that I was in the world made her joyous and happy. In that cedar chest there were newspaper clipping of things I had done. I even found a lock of hair. My little girl-friend, not long after that five-year old picture was taken, cut every curl I had off behind the living room couch. I found an old autograph book and a shirt I had worn maybe in high school. There were yellowing programs from High School and College graduations.

I don’t want to bore you—but open up your own memory book and see what your Mother gave you. My mother never had much of the world’s goods. She lived in a little four-room house her whole adult life. She worked in the textile mill across the street until she retired. She sent me three crumpled up five-dollars bills week after week while I was in college. It was not until years later that I realized what an incredible sacrifice that must have been. She dragged me to church year after year sometimes against my will.  And maybe one of the reasons I have preached for over forty years is maybe her gift of faith. I have told many people that even if I had been sent to prison my Mother would say, “Oh, but you know he really was a good boy.” 

She’s been gone a long time—and she really was the keeper of a thousand memories. Yet—she gave me sweet memories that make me proud and carry me through. So, on this Mama’s day—I rise up and call my Mama blessed. I think this is what Anna Jarvis had in mind in 1908 when she remembered her Mama.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com