July 19, 2003. Some people have conversion dates; days they were hit out of the blue and God showed them Himself. I have July 19, 2003. The day my life changed forever. The day that started a chain of events that made me see the glorious God who owns me. The day my mom died.
I have been puzzling over how to honor my mother. It seems so wrong to let this day go by and not remember what happened. But what would be a good way to honor her? I considered observing a week of blog silence, but she would have liked this blog. How does it honor her to shut my mouth when she would have wanted me to speak? I thought about relating the funeral- who said what, why I think it is the finest funeral I’ve been to. But how does it honor her life to talk about her death? Would it not honor her life more to talk about her life?
So I shall. Not the big parts of life- it is too easy to marvel at the garden and miss the rose. Instead, I will share the small bits that come to mind. Some of them I was afraid I had forgotten, but they come back so easily I am reassured. God will not let me forget her completely.
The first thing that comes to mind is her smell. On the morning of my birthday I would crawl into bed with her and she would tell me the story of my birth. I crawled in next to her and smelled her scent. She smelled of coffee and Mom in bed. It was this scent that was never there except when she was in bed. It was like an added blanket over the whole scene that smelled like safety and warmth and comfort. She would sip her coffee and tell me about the watching the blizzard on the lake from the hospital window and I would snuggle down and drink in her story and her smell.
Next, her stews. Seth says he has had enough stew to last him a lifetime, but I still love to make her beef stew. She would put everything in the crock-pot in the morning and we would smell it cook all day. She would serve it to us and we would blow on it until it was cool enough to eat. Sometimes it smelled so good I would burn my tongue on the first bite and only be able to half-taste the rest of it. She would serve bread with it and I would put a piece of bread in my stew and watch it turn brown as it soaked up the gravy. I’ve made her beef stew and it was good, but it wasn’t quite the same.
I have fairly manageable hair, but when I was younger I wouldn’t brush it for days. It would get to Saturday night and my mom would sit down with a comb and a bottle of No More Tangles and we would spend the next hour combing out my hair. I would sit in front of her and we would watch something on TV. She tried to make it so I only had to turn my head at the commercial breaks. It was a lot of fun during the summer when I usually had pinesap in my hair from climbing the tree. And she would sit and comb and brush and comb.
For my graduation I wanted lots of braids in my hair. I don’t remember why it was so important, but I wanted braids. I knew I would never get the braids how I wanted them so Mom braided my hair for me. She put eight braids into my hair on the day of my graduation/ graduation party. She had a whole list of things to do, but there she was, braiding my hair. I hope I sat still for her and made it easy.
My mother wore a black, fleece poncho. She would wear it with her patchwork dress and her black hat and she looked cool. I didn’t think it at the time, but I was dumb then. On Halloween someone asked her if she was dressed up as a witch. I don’t remember if she actually told them she was in her everyday clothes or not. Once, she, Adiel and I were at Barnes and Nobles having some coffee. When it was time to go Adiel and I stood up and put our coats on. For some reason my mom tried to put her poncho on sitting down. She usually had no trouble, but this time she put it on backwards and everything she tried to get it on right just tangled her up. Finally, she yelled from the depths of a black mass, “Help! I’m stuck!� Adiel and I, being good teenagers, walked out of the café and stood admiring some teapots, trying desperately to communicate that we were in no way affiliated with that crazy woman. She finally sorted herself out and we walked out to the car. She asked us, “Why didn’t you help me?� and we could only stare at her in amazement. She actually thought two teenage girls would help their mother who was stuck in a poncho? We always thought she was weird, but that convinced us.
My mother had way of coughing and clearing her throat that was like no one else I know. For some reason her throat was always irritated and she would cough without realizing she was doing it. I could find her in a crowed store by this cough. If I was more than two aisles away and wasn’t sure where she was I would wait and listen and, soon enough, she would cough and I could find her easily. I don’t know if I ever told her about this. I know at least one of my sisters would do the same thing. This cough was just a part of her as much as her smell was. I have never heard another cough just like hers. This is could be a good thing because if I did I would probably start crying and it would be difficult to explain that a cough made me miss my mommy.
My mother was a romantic. She was an everyday romantic who found romance in her husband mowing the lawn just because she wanted him to. She tried to teach her daughters that romance isn’t what you read in books or see on television. My father is also a romantic though it’s harder to tell. One day we were making Swedish meatballs for Elizabeth’s wedding. At the same time my mom was coloring her hair. This meant she was in her ‘coloring her hair’ outfit that consisted of a ratty pair of shorts and the shirt she normally wore to paint in. Her hair was all wrapped up in plastic and she had dye running down her neck. She was elbow deep in raw meat showing us how to mixing meatballs with your hands when my dad walks in with a rose. The looks on their faces were precious. We were dying with laughter because mom looked ridiculous. Mom was laughing because she looked ridiculous and crying at the same time because her husband had just brought her a rose and that was so sweet. Dad was somewhere between laughing and smiling quietly because his bride looked absurd and lovely at the same time. We left the room so they could smooch and so we could laugh without disturbing them. My sisters and I probably agree that this was the single greatest lesson and example of everyday romance we have ever seen.
So here it is- I have rambled on a bit about my mom and the small episodes that make up my life. I laughed while I wrote this and I cried quite a bit. I worry a lot about forgetting her. I can’t remember sometimes whether she called me Gabrielle or my nickname Gaby. I think she used both, but I can’t quite recall. I worry sometimes because it seems like I don’t mourn on the big days I’m supposed to. Mother’s Day came and went without so much as a sad thought. Her birthday was the same way. But here I am, remembering and grieving. It is encouraging to know I can.
I love you, Mommy. I miss you and I can’t wait to see you again. Until then, I’ll dance pretty.
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