Home Is Where the Mother Is

I went to see my little mom last week. She’s 81 years old, about five feet tall, and pretty spunky, just the same. I love her stories. I love it how she can remember what Jeffrey used to do when he was five and I can’t (life was such a fog when the kids were small and our goal was simply to get them all in bed at night.) I love it that she still keeps up with our next door neighbor in Shreveport, Louisiana even though we moved away 38 years ago. I love that she cherishes certain day lilies growing in her garden because someone special gave them to her. I love that every now and then she gives me a call and says, “I just had a yen to talk to you!” I love that when she saw her first great grandchild and was asked how it felt, she simply summed it up in one word – continuance. I love that when we moved her out of her house a few years back, she could tell a story about every quilt she had and every knick knack on her shelf, and basically knew who had given her what and why and when. I love it that she can remember things like that, because I can’t remember anything. But more than that, it professes to me the value she places in relationships. She paid attention along the way, and remembered the things that were important. The relationships.


My parents moved around some after Duane and I married, so when someone asked me where “home” was, I always just said wherever they were living at the time – Dallas, Memphis, Paris. Because really, home wasn’t a certain city, home was simply where they were.


And still today, I believe with all my heart that “home is where the mother is.”
Mom’s were a great idea. Thanks, God!

And I love you, Mom!



caption: mom and sweet peas
or
a sweet pea of a mom