It was clear Christmas was Mama’s favorite time of the year as soon as you stepped inside her home. Sparkling white lights draped over fragrant sprigs of eucalyptus and glowing candlelight brightened the rooms. Fat gold ribbon curled in oversized champagne glasses sitting on tabletops and Mama perched on her white couch like the queen of her own kingdom, instructing us kids to do whatever was needed. Mama didn’t fool us though. We sibs knew that she was really a princess—a girl of a woman, who believed in fairy tales AND the Lord.
When Mama became ill two years ago, we all took turns helping her. In the hospital, she refused to let nurses bathe her, telling them, “My daughters will do it.” And, we did. Once she was home, we stayed with her in shifts. We never could figure out if she couldn’t do things for herself or wouldn’t. To some extent we had waited on Mama a long time and we wondered if maybe she just got used to depending on others, but we cared for her anyway. Mama lived a year and 6 months past the Mother’s Day Sunday when she lost consciousness in my sister’s garage. My sister told me as we prepared for her funeral that Mama said Jesus sent her back that day, that’s when she heard the two of us praying, and we saw her body snap back to life.
Today as I drove passed my mailbox I wished it held one of Mama’s handwritten cards—the ones I didn’t even open sometimes. I miss you, Mama.
My newest book, “The Other Sister” is dedicated to my Mother.
