A Lilting Love: My Mama

I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve been told I’m the spitting (or splitting) image of my mama. (I also can’t tell you which one of those is the actual phrase, but that’s more out of forgetfulness and laziness than anything else.) To be like her makes me shake my head and sigh (sometimes) or smile with joy (more often). And here’s why.

My mama is nonlinear. Anyone who’s roomed with me knows that, despite my best intentions and the organization skills I can whip out at the beginning of the semester when time is abundant and dishes are washed once a day, I am a messy person. Piles of paper plague me wherever I go, because halfway to the recycling bin, I just know that last years’ History of Modern Western Thought research paper index cards will come in handy someday. (It could happen. And then who would be laughing?) Of course, after I’ve decided on the absolute necessity of this hefty stack, I set it down, not to be thought of again until I need the couch-space for visitors. My mom might not appreciate me attributing this quality to her, but we like to repackage it as “nonlinear.” Sure, sometimes the vanilla extract gets left on the bathroom counter, and sometimes you find three pencils, a ruler, a crochet hook, and a wristwatch in the crevices of an armchair—but wouldn’t life be boring without those adventures? Thank you, Mama, for teaching me to enjoy the moments when one foot doesn’t quite make it in front of the other.

My mama loves kiddos. About half of our correspondence (a fancy word for facebook messages) while I am at college are student story swaps. Unlike my little brother, my mama doesn’t tell me that my stories about preschool naptime give her a reason to nap. She sees the learning that can take place from bringing a unique insect or arachnid from the playground indoors to examine under a magnifying glass, as well as the growth that stems from building a year-long sister-classroom relationship with preschoolers in Cambodia. Her students receive handwritten notes delivered by the United States Postal Service, giving them at least one time in the year where snail mail is meant specifically and only for the four-year-old in the family. Thank you, Mama, for teaching me what your mama taught you about the value and delight of working with young children.

My mama sees the glass as half full. When asked the question, I tend to mention either that the glass is completely full, half with water and half with air (hint: Dad’s answer), or that if we just had a smaller glass, we’d realize it was overflowing. I don’t think I’ve ever heard my mama say the second one, but she lives it. I’ve heard her listen to the concerns of dear friends and point them gently toward believing the best about the people who wronged them. I’ve felt her wrestle with loss and come through it knowing that God is working, and he is good. I’ve seen her share the joy of the eighth consecutive month-of-snow or day-of-rain through her photographs, unable to contain her excitement by staying inside even when she’s in her pajamas and it’s far below zero. Thank you, Mama, for teaching me to make my own sunshine no matter the circumstances.

I could go on: My mama makes up words. My mama laughs. My mama loves Jesus. My mama naps.

My mama is, of course, the best mama; I pray that someday that will be one of the reasons people say, “You’re just like her.”