Recently, Molly, the girls, and I were having one of our favorite dinners, spaghetti. When little people eat spaghetti, it is always a big mess. Now, it is an entertaining mess, but a big one nonetheless. This dinner did not disappoint. In preparation for the mess we put the girls in their chairs wearing only their diapers because there is no clothing yet invented that can withstand the horrible combination of toddlers and tomato sauce. None. Once we started dinner, the predictable shenanigans occurred. The mess was so impressive I decided I wanted to have pictures. It was only after picture taking that I noticed just how much my smallest daughter, Abbie, looks like my mother. Frankly, it is uncanny. Ainsley is a miniature version of Molly to be sure, but Abbie looks for all the world like my mom.
My mom passed away in 1997 from cancer, and I still think about her daily. Simply saying I miss her is too weak an expression, but it is all I have. I wish she were here, particularly over the last 12 years. The last 12 years of my life have been a whirlwind. There have been terrible losses and difficult blows. On the other hand, there have been amazing successes and the highest of joys. I wish she were here to witness all of the events of these last years. I wish I could have shared all of it with her. I thought about her on my wedding day. I thought about her when my daughters were born, and I think about her every day now. These many years later, it is not so much sadness I feel. It is a bittersweet feeling I get when I think of her. It is bitter that she is gone, sweet in the way she lived.
I almost always think of mom when we are at the dinner table. Mom was a stickler for manners. Mom taught me the value of saying “sir” and “mam.” Mom insisted that her children treat every person with the respect due to them by their station in life. It was not just manners in general that mattered to mom. Table manners mattered. She insisted that I hold my fork the correct way. She insisted that I chew properly. The table was not for fun and games. It was for eating properly and sharing proper conversation with family. When I watch my little girls and the adventures we have at supper, I will often say, “mom is probably rolling over in her grave.” Molly quickly reminds me, that she would probably enjoy table time with the girls very much—messes included. Not only are grandchildren different from children, Molly notes, but the girls are little and toddlers cannot manage manners yet. Molly is right. Mom would get as much of a kick out of spaghetti night as I do.
There is an old saying, “time heals all wounds.” I’m pretty sure that is not true. It is not time that has helped me heal from losing mom. It is my faith. My faith teaches me that after death there comes a resurrection. The earliest followers of Jesus would often refer to life in the body as life in an earthly tent. When life in the earthly tent is concluded we have something in store that is beyond imagination. Whatever eternity is like, it includes those who have been in the faith who have gone on before us. I am comforted by the fact that the night I held mom’s hand as she breathed her last will not be the last time I see her.
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