Times have changed so much since I was an early elementary school student, dependent on the care of my mom. When I look back on those years, I am amazed at how much I relied on her, how much she loved the family, and how much I took it all for granted, seeing her labor not as love but just what mothers do. Young mothers in these days have the same inner motivations to care for their families, but Mom’s daily routine and special projects look quite different from this decade’s expression.
Born on a farm in rural southern Illinois in the early days of The Roaring Twenties and growing up during the Great Depression, Mom received training in demanding work, using what you have and helping others.
Once she had a family and home of her own, she followed her parents’ example. She planted and harvested a large garden, storing for winter by canning or freezing berries, fruit, jellies, and vegetables. She sewed her own clothes and would have sewn mine if I hadn’t insisted on store-bought. In those days, she drove five miles into town to do laundry. Our home was too small to have our own washer, which would have required a wringer washer, three rinse tubs, a starch pan for the items needing to be crisp and pressed, and a bluing pan to make the whites whiter. And the only dryer available anywhere was the clothesline in the backyard.
Don’t forget that the washing wasn’t done until the ironing was also done. Pressing the wrinkles out of clothes was almost another full-day project, as they needed to be sprinkled and set to rest for the dampness to permeate each piece completely before heating the iron. When Dad’s nearby uncle and aunt could no longer do their wash, Mom picked up their clothes, drove into town, and completed their laundry too.
She found time to prepare balanced meals every day and be hospitable to company. Painting, redecorating, reupholstering, and some carpentry fell to her hands to do. Her relaxing time in front of the television included crocheting and embroidery. Within all that—and more—she made time to talk, to lay my head in her lap, and to cup my face with her with her long slender fingers
In hindsight, I think about all she did and marvel at how deeply she loved. However, I don’t know if she thought about love in her service to the family and others. She was simply doing what she had been trained to do, what was expected of her or of anyone.
Very little of that life remained in her as she lay in a hospital bed recovering from broken hip surgery. Eighty years, Parkinson’s disease, and its often-accompanying dementia, left her a frail shell. As she stirred, I took her hand in mine and immediately recognized her thin fingers and loving touch. At that moment, I no longer sat there as a grandfather in my own right tending to a receding mother. I was a seven-year-old boy, absorbing as much of his mom’s love as he could. With my other hand, I wiped tears from my eyes and said, “I love you, too, Mom.”
Occasionally, I experience a fresh wash of the Lord’s love in the same way. I arise in the morning with Jesus on my mind, but daily appointments and scheduled projects jostle for preeminence and often win as the hands on the clock make their circuits. In those times, I take His love for granted, accepting His goodness as I often did Mom’s labors of love. I slip into the attitude that God is simply doing what’s expected of Him.
How exceedingly precious are those times when I’ve quieted my heart and mind and felt the touch of His hand. My heart melts with remembering the first time I felt that touch with His love and forgiveness. And I feel like Caleb who at age eighty said he was as strong as he was at forty and wanted that mountain the Lord had given him in the Promised Land (See Joshua 14:6-15).
I then recall my mom’s love and that moment I experienced beside her hospital bed. I wipe the tears from my eyes and say, “I love you, too, Jesus. Help me love you more.”
