I am grateful for one pretty peony to enjoy this afternoon at my desk.

I am grateful for a Saturday morning surprise of petite pink roses from Sam.

I am grateful for a Saturday evening surprise of a beautiful white bouquet of flowers from Angela.

I am grateful for pictures of Oregon grandchildren.

I am grateful for a Mother’s Day card from Karissa.

I am grateful for a fabulous dinner on the patio with my sister, my Dad, and my husband.

I am grateful for Sam pancakes on Sunday morning after church.

I am grateful for wallpaper removal therapy that was very needed this past weekend.

I am grateful for steady rain.

I am grateful for an email from Aunt Patsy and her continued encouragement.

I am grateful for my husband who knew yesterday was hard and did what he could to ease the pain.

And I am grateful for a phone call last night from my CASA “daughter.”

When I was a little girl, Mommy mostly knew how to make it all better. Not always, but mostly always.

I remember crawling into Mommy and Daddy’s bed once when there was a storm. I only remember doing that once, but I do remember feeling safe. Safer than when we had to sit under the big upright piano, our tornado shelter. What in the world…

When I had to stay home from school with a fever, Mommy would pull out the Childcraft books and choose a project to make with her construction paper and pipe cleaners and glitter and glue and toilet paper tubes. One of my favorite sick day projects was making sock puppets with old socks that no longer had partners. And the only time I ever got to play with pipe cleaners was when I was sick. I’m sure of it. If it was springtime, a construction paper cone basket with a pipe cleaner handle was perfect for the peonies and irises in the front yard flower bed or the daisies in the tractor tire flower bed next to the front porch.

I seemed to be plagued with broken ear drums. Maybe it was just once, but I think it was more. Maybe it was just multiple ear infections, but I do remember at least one broken ear drum. Mommy’s remedy was to break aspirin into a powder, mix it with a little warm water in a spoon, and pour it in my ear. What in the world…

When I was down and out and so sad, Mommy would set me on her lap and sing the worms song. “Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, I’m goin’ out to eat worms.” She would sing it until I would smile again. Sometimes, I think she sang it in jest, to poke at my ridiculous mood and to tell me to quit feeling sorry for myself – kinda mean – but mostly she sang it to get me to cheer up and realize it wasn’t all so bad.

When I was sick, even into adulthood, she could always tell I was coming down with something. “I can see it in your eyes.” And I kinda liked when I got sick, because that meant Daddy was going to bring home some 7-Up from the gas station. We rarely had pop when I was little, but it was a guarantee if one of us was sick.

When life was hard, even if that just meant that Lori was mean to me at church, or Angela wouldn’t let me play with her and her friends, Mommy had a way of making it better. I would lay in her lap, and she would softly run her fingers through my hair until I fell asleep.

There were the growing up years that weren’t so smooth with Mom. Junior high and high school were not so fun and her lap was not where I really wanted to find myself. But as soon as it was no longer available and I moved away to South Texas at 19, I longed for that lap of comfort and security.

Saturday mornings were for Mom phone calls when we lived two states away. Sometimes other days required a call, when I just needed her presence to reassure, to listen, to advise, and to empathize. No one was a better cheerleader. No one was a better hand-holder. No one had a better lap for the moments when you just needed safety and security.

In recent years, when I moved closer and she was nearby, her lap became tight hugs. Her lap became knowing looks. Her lap became dinner at Taco Johns or a run to Dairy Queen for a Peanut Buster Parfait. Her lap became quiet evenings at the table with leftovers in little butter tubs and cottage cheese containers, sharing tears over the latest.

So today, I am grateful for Mom’s lap.

Even at 51, I wish I had her lap again…

I am grateful that when last night was so hard, God gave me the song below to play on my internal jukebox.

I am grateful that the choir is singing it and I am privileged to have the music and play for them.

And I am grateful that when I cannot stand, I can fall on Jesus, and He will understand. As Mom used to sing, “No one understands like Jesus, when the days are dark and grim. No one is so near, so dear as Jesus, cast your every care on Him.”

I’m grateful my Mom loved to play games. She loved playing Rook and Mexican Train Dominoes. She loved playing Scrabble and Bananagrams. She loved playing ANY game her grandchildren wanted to play. So many memories were created with Mom and her grandchildren sitting at the kitchen table during holiday afternoons and evenings, after the meal was done and the kitchen cleaned up.  A reunion was never complete in Mom’s eyes until game playing had been thoroughly worn out. Game time usually included popcorn or bowls of snacks and cans of pop or on special occasions, Mom would make shakes in the blender. Game time ALWAYS included lots of laughter.

Mom was very competitive and it came out around a table. She wanted to win, always. She was the reigning queen when it came to Ping Pong. Anyone who played with Mom knew to be at their best because she had no mercy when she had that paddle in her hand.

Mom loved to watch games, too – at least the games she couldn’t play, like granddaughter volleyball or basketball or softball, grandson baseball and Royals baseball. She was famous for her “Yaaaaaa-hoooooooos” in the stands, embarrassing her family members by being loudest of them all.

Mom had a closet full of games with boxes that were taped at every corner from years of use. She had an old can full of marbles for Chinese Checkers and Wahoo.  She always kept that brown cup with dice for Yahtzee time and had spare dice just in case. She lamented when it was time to part with the croquet set that never really had a good storage spot.

Growing up, Mom had a rule. No playing cards allowed. She grew up with that rule and passed it on to us. Playing cards were for gambling and were forbidden. So, Rook was our non-gambling deck of cards. I didn’t know what an ace or club or jack was until I was an adult, and it took YEARS before I could rid myself of the twinge of guilt when I played a game that used those gambling cards.

I am grateful that Mom liked to have fun.

I am grateful that Mom took the time to play with her family.

And I am grateful that she enjoyed winning but never minded losing as long as we all had fun.

Mom and music were like peanut butter and chocolate – just meant to go together. I have great memories of Mom and music:

She would lead all of us in singing on car trips. Two of my favorite car songs with Mom were: “Horsey, horsey, on your way, we’ve been together for many-a day, so let your tail go flip and your wheels go ‘round – Giddy-up! We’re homeward bound!…” and the other one, “I love you, a bushel and a peck, a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck…”

I think one of her most favorite songs to sing was made famous by John Denver. “Grandma’s Feather Bed.” When Mom asked me to accompany her on several songs because she wanted to make a recording of her singing for all of us kids to have, I rolled my eyes on the inside. I feel guilty and ashamed about that now, especially since I do not have that tape any longer. Someone else has it. What a wonderful gift to leave to her children, and I now understand her feelings expressed in a little sadness that day, that her children would not appreciate her gift…until she was gone. On that tape, Mom wanted to be sure that “Grandma’s Feather Bed” was a part of the repertoire. If only I could hear her sing that song once again.

She insisted that all of her children play a musical instrument. I played the French horn and the piano, and she tried to get me to play the organ, but the organ was Angela’s calling, not mine. She attended countless band concerts and musicals and choir concerts and recitals – with five of us taking lessons and being involved in music all through school, she kept busy. She and Dad sacrificed so much in order for us to learn music, to learn how to read music, to appreciate the music. Driving to Wichita to give us piano lessons with Aunt Patsy, paying for hundreds or thousands of lessons in Hutchinson for us, carting us to recitals and contests, forcing us to practice when it would have been easier to have some peace and quiet and no complaining… When they bought a brand new French horn for me, I didn’t quite grasp the sacrifice. When they bought a new piano and organ for me and for Angela, we didn’t quite understand how important it was to them. If only I had my French horn and my piano again, I would appreciate it all the more. You don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone…

Every time we came home to Grandma’s to visit, my Mom would INSIST that my girls sing a special at church, and she didn’t care what Pastor Gary said, her granddaughters were going to sing a special at church. She loved hearing them sing, “Jesus, name above all names, beautiful Savior, glorious Loh-oh-oh-ohrd…” And she taught them a song at Christmas about rocking baby Jesus and bought them dolls to act it out and then made them sing it for her Women’s Missionary Society Christmas Tea. She loved hearing the girls sing. Funny thing…she used to do that to me when I was little – insist that I play the piano for company, for church, for some special thing. “No” was not an acceptable answer. How I hated being paraded and put under pressure. But if I had just one more opportunity now, I would play whatever she wanted me to play.

Mom loved to sing with her sisters. It was probably one of her greatest joys in life. I LOVED reunions when the Aunts and Mom would sing while Aunt Patsy played the piano, or they would sing acapella, and it was always the “old” music, most of it unfamiliar to me, but it was like heaven to hear their three part harmonies and Mom sang low – alto and even tenor sometimes. The last time I heard them sing together, Mom’s heart and lungs were beginning to fail and she struggled to breathe deeply in order to hold those notes, but she wasn’t going to stop singing. Tears could not be held back as I took in every note, knowing it might be the last time my ears would receive this gift. And it was the last time.

Mom loved the Sweet Adelines and any barbershop quartet and she loved the Gaithers and Dino and when Verna and Cindy played duets at church, and she loved hearing her sister Patsy play that song about the bells, and she loved listening to Karissa sing, “His Eye is On the Sparrow,” and she made us watch “The Lawrence Welk Show” and we listened to the Reader’s Digest Christmas albums every day in December and when I was grown, she bought tickets to concerts in Hutchinson and took me to them because she knew Dad wouldn’t want to go, but she loved attending those concerts – sometimes solo artists, sometimes instrumental small groups, but always entertaining. She was so excited when Sherrie Owen would come to town to visit family, and Mom would always beg her to sing at church – another special that needed to be sung. She loved hearing my sister on the organ and insisted that we play piano/organ duets whenever we were together at church. She directed the church choir for several years, and I will never forget the tradition of the choir walking into the sanctuary each Sunday, beginning the service with,

The Lord is in His holy temple, the Lord is in His holy temple, 
Let all the earth keep silent. Let all the earth keep silent, before Him.
Keep silent, keep silent, before Him.

Mom taught us all what “reverence” meant with that song.

Our church had quiet time each week – a Quaker tradition. It was spontaneous and the pastor ended the quiet time when he felt it was time, led by the Holy Spirit. Quiet time was a time to worship in silence, or for anyone to share a prayer or a testimony or a scripture verse…or a song. Mom did that more often than not. She was never one to not have anything to say, but she was one of the few who would break out into song. One of my favorite memories was of her singing, “He Touched Me.” Ah, if I could only hear her sing that one once again.

I am grateful today for the gift Mom gave to me, the love of music. All kinds. Well, except opera. She never gave me that gift.

I am grateful for my childhood, filled with music.

I am grateful for all of the lessons and the old upright with the yellowed keys that was replaced by a brand new Yamaha that carried me through high school and for the Holton Farkas French horn that was so shiny and new.

I am grateful for the memories.

And I am grateful that Mom didn’t stop singing, and I’m pretty sure she’s singing right now.

Mom loved kids. Little ones, big ones, it didn’t matter, she loved them all. Sometimes you would think otherwise, because she was kinda mean. Well, a little more than kinda. She was mean. But she was only mean when she was stressed or under pressure, I’m sure. I guess we’re all bent that way, if you think about it.

My sister and I were talking just the other day about the time Mom drove all of the birthday slumber party girls home in the middle of the night because she wasn’t putting up with little girls fighting.  Or there were the times when a grandchild would say something inappropriate in her home and man oh man, the LOOK came out of her face. Or when a certain grateful writer marked up all of her sister’s dolls with black magic marker, with the help of the neighbor girl down the street, and Mom banned the neighbor girl from ever coming over again.

But there were countless times Mom loved on the rowdy junior high boys and moody girls, and a baby or little one could not pass her in a hallway at church without getting squeezed tightly with a hug, and again – she had more pictures of her grandchildren and had to share every detail of their spectacular talents. She was so proud of her “kids,” and they were all “her kids.”

For as long as I remember her, Mom was teaching Sunday School and helping with kids’ activities. When Violet and Josephine didn’t or couldn’t, Mom took on Children’s Church. And Vacation Bible School.

When grandchildren came along, no wall or refrigerator front was spared. Every garage sale picture frame was filled. Her Hallmark checkbook calendar was marked up thoroughly with penciled in dates of birthdays and school programs, ballgames and recitals.

She could hold a baby for HOURS. She knew how to jiggle and move just right, so that a baby would hush and feel surrounded with love and protection and nurture. She made snowman pancakes and homemade play-dough and could garage sale with grandkids all morning long. She would clear out an entire closet just to store empty toilet paper tubes and buttons and glue and ribbons and crayons and paper doilies and construction paper and googly eyes. She brought home any leftover paper and office supplies from her jobs because they would come in handy for kids who happened to come over and needed to play “office” while their parents visited. She insisted that every kid in the world needed to see Ginger and the puppets and would load up a car with any who would take her up on her offer.

She volunteered to coordinate the Angel Tree Network at church, she substitute taught, she and Dad took in a foreign-exchange student when Nadine had nowhere else to go but back home, she was a huge part of inmates’ lives at the penitentiary just being a “mom” figure and listening to their stories.

And this is just some of what Mom did with the time she really didn’t have to spare. She needed to be needed, and kids needed her. Little ones, big ones, it didn’t matter, she loved them all.

I am grateful for a wonderful example to follow.

I am grateful that my Mom took that deep desire to be needed and used it to bless others.

I am grateful that Mom didn’t keep her love all to her own kids, but she loved many and counted them all “hers.” Little ones, big ones, it didn’t matter. She loved them all…

There are different ways of expressing the same sentiment, such as these three examples:

“Oh, that is such a lovely shade of lavender.”

“I seen a color like that on a pair of boxers at the state fair.”

“I love that cool purple shirt – reminds me of smelly flowers and old ladies!”
(Ding ding ding ding ding!  This is more along the lines of something I would say.)

I am my mother’s daughter, after all – not always very tactful in the way I present my thoughts, but certainly my intentions are sincere.

I’m also not an elegant and refined salad eater. Mom didn’t teach me to use a fork and a knife to politely cut the greens into small dainty bites. The older I become, the more I realize the stabbing of large pieces of lettuce is not the appropriate way.

I think it was in my 30’s before I recognized the fact that using my pointer finger to push corn or peas onto my fork wasn’t adult-ish.  And even at 51, I cannot resist the urge to lick my fingers during barbecue and fried chicken. Mom taught me to lick, yes she did. However, I do refrain from licking when preparing, and if I DO lick, I wash.

I have slight anxiety attacks when I have to make a meal for anyone who says the word “lovely” in regular conversation.

My Mom used to say, “purty” instead of “pretty.” And “worsh” instead of “wash.” And “There’s more than one way to skin a cat,” instead of, “I thought of another way to accomplish this task.” She licked too, when preparing meals, but she didn’t always worsh.

I apologized at the dinner table last night when my macaroni and cheese did not turn out like the recipe promised. And Sam said, “You sound like your Mom.” Well, I cook like her too! She put some doozies on the table sometimes…burnt, runny, bad-tasting, not quite dones, homemade concoctions to “use up” solo items that no one had wanted to eat previously.

Back to last night. I DID, however, do something very unlike my Mom. I tossed the mac & cheese down the disposal after the three of us had to eat it for our meal. Not like my Mom at all. She would have served it for the next seven days until there was just a spoonful left. Seriously just a spoonful. She would save a spoonful and heat it up and then goad the family with, “We need to eat up these leftovers! What can I pass you?”

This time of year on the calendar is hard for me, but I will remember my Mom on these days and be grateful for the memories. I will avoid Facebook posts of daughters loving their mamas and turn the channel at the sappy commercials that bring on the bittersweet sadness, and instead, I will focus on my Mom’s mom-ness and not on mine.

So for today, I am grateful for Mom’s meals that were containered in cottage cheese plastics and butter tubs with cracked lids and microwave blisters.

I am grateful for Mom’s bluntness and less-than-tactful sincerity.

And I am grateful that in my eyes, my Mom was the loveliest of them all.