I want to begin by sharing two funny stories about Mom.
When Mom and Pop went on their first date; Pop was running late. So, in her usual fashion, Mom decided to just go on about her evening, she washed her hair and started getting ready for bed. Suddenly, Pop showed up at her doorstep. She begrudgingly agreed to go out with him and slipped on a pair of white pedal pusher pants with green diamonds on them. They ended up having a lovely time, and when Pop brought her home, they stood on the porch saying goodnight and making plans to see each other again. That’s when he asked her for a favor: “Please don’t ever wear those pants again.” Mom honored Pop’s request—but she kept the pants. Not long after my brother was born, she found them tucked away and decided to make him an outfit out of those dreaded pants, much to Pop’s chagrin.
More recently, I lived with Mom for almost a year when her mind began to fade and she could no longer live at home by herself. During that time, Mom managed to drop her upper denture into the garbage disposal—an event the disposal did not survive, and neither did the teeth. So, naturally, we had to replace them. One morning, Mom came into the room I’d taken over as my office and announced, “Margaret, I’ve lost my teeth and I can’t find them.” Since this wasn’t our first lost teeth adventure, I calmly reassured her that I’d track them down. I searched everywhere—under the bed, in her chair, in her walker, even in the trash like a true detective—but they were nowhere to be found. I finally had to get back to work, so I told her we’d resume the search later and that the teeth had to turn up eventually.
A couple of hours later, she marched back into my office and said, “Margaret Ann, I found my teeth.” Relieved, I asked, “That’s wonderful, Mama! Where were they?” She looked completely earnest and said, “They were in my mouth the whole time.” She apologized so humbly and sweetly—even though she’d been walking around with a full set of teeth all along—and despite my moment of irritation, all I could do was laugh. After all, if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry.
When I think about my mom and all the memories I have of her, there are so many that it feels overwhelming, and it’s hard to find the right words. As a mother, she was loving, patient, comforting, and compassionate—but she was also tough when she needed to be. I used to say, “Mom, why can’t we be friends?” and she would always respond, “You will have many friends, but you will only have one mother.” She had a wonderful smile and an infectious laugh. Whenever she told a funny story, she would get so tickled that she could hardly finish it, her words disappearing into that unmistakable wheezy laugh. Our home was full of love and joy because of her. She was there for every skinned knee, every tear shed, every birthday, piano recital, school function, and graduation. She celebrated all my successes and cried with me through every trial. Her greatest wish for everyone she met was that they would know Jesus and have a relationship with Him, with the hope that we would all be together in Heaven one day. She shared His love so generously with everyone she knew and encountered. She left us exactly the way she always hoped she would—going to sleep at night and simply not waking up, with the assurance that the next thing she would see would be the face of Jesus. Her deepest wish was that all her friends and family would one day see Him too, right alongside her.
I am a better person because of her, and I will carry her in my heart for the rest of my life.
