Mom

November 16, 2017

The northern clouds skulked across the horizon in grey, sullen silence, reddened angrily at their edges by the sun setting red in the western sky over Lake Erie. In the south, their cumulus cousins billowed in white effulgence, while in between the sky was brilliant blue. It was a glorious end to a beautiful day spent with mom. She was back to her old self, a welcome change from when I saw her last, wearied by the hours spent lying in the ER, waiting for the care she needed after her fall. 

She hurts when they make her stand in physical therapy, and tires easily, but I guess that goes with the territory when you’re 95. We talked and laughed, and when I prayed for her before leaving, she cried. My prayers aren’t usually that bad. Actually, mom cries at most anything, so I wasn’t surprised. It would have signaled that something was wrong if she hadn’t teared up. 

I didn’t always appreciate mom as I should have. I (and many others) owe her more than I can say. It was her determination nearly sixty years ago that changed the course of my life. You see, when I was a child, we didn’t go to church. I remember feeling sorry for my friends as I watched them sadly staring out car windows on their way to church, while I waved as I rode my bike down the street. Alas! The day came when I became one of those unfortunate kids, staring forlornly out the window as we too, headed to church. To put it mildly, I didn’t want to go. It wasn’t too bad when we attended the Lutheran church my friend Jack went to; there was no end to the mischief we managed to get ourselves into together.  Mom however, wasn’t satisfied, and after about a month, I was transplanted to the WestSide Baptist church down the road where they didn’t put up with my fooling around. I dragged my feet, complained loud and long, but with mom, it was like spitting into the wind; it didn’t bother her, and just made my life miserable. I know it’s hard to believe, but she didn’t care about my feelings. WestSide, it was! 

I well remember that night. I was standing outside the door of the corner room by the kitchen in the church basement/fellowship hall. An elderly gentleman had just finished a little talk with an object lesson that grabbed my attention (to this day, I can tell you exactly how that lesson went), and when he asked if anyone wanted to pray to receive Christ as Savior, I raised my hand. A few minutes later, the pastor’s wife was talking with me, teaching me how to pray. And so it began. 

Nearly sixty years later, mom’s determination is still bearing fruit. Anything I might have accomplished in life, any good I may have done, I must lay at her feet. Her days are numbered. She knows that, and is eager to meet her Savior face to face, and when she does, I think Jesus will lay a hand on her shoulder and gently turn her around to see what she cannot see today—people young and old whose lives have been transformed by the Gospel because she refused to listen to a bratty kid who didn’t want to go to church. Thank you, mom. We all owe you a great debt. Revel in your reward! You can quit crying any time now