There's no other like my mother

I called my most loyal blog follower today (my mother), and after she inquired about my husband's health (he's got something like the flu) and my plans for the afternoon (shopping and laundry), our conversation went something like this:

Mom: You haven't written on your blog lately.
Me: I know. I think I have writer's block.
Mom: You could write about having writer's block.
Me: Well, I also downloaded this really cool app to my new phone. It's this word game...
Mom: Mmmmhmmm.
Me: Okay, okay, maybe I'll write something this weekend.

Leave it to my mom to get me motivated.

So even though I thought I had word-game-app inflicted writer's block, I decided I would try to post to my blog today, for my mother's sake, and that the topic of my blog would be the very person who misses it the most when I don't show up for writing--my mom.

As I was shopping at Target this afternoon, I tried to locate in the recesses of my brain some memories of my mom that would really reflect who she is and what she means to me. The first one that came up kind of surprised me. After I reflected on it for a while, though, it started to make sense.

The summer I was thirteen, my family went to Glacier National Park for vacation. My dad worked there one summer in the 1970s and has a reverence for the place that runs deep within him. He hadn't been back to Glacier for almost twenty years and wanted to capture everything about our trip on video.

I just have to take a moment to describe my dad's video camera. In 1988 the palm-size video camera was only a speck in someone's imagination; our video camera was the size of a small child and had to be connected to a power pack at all times. This meant that one of us had to carry a backpack holding the power pack, which was tethered to the video camera with a three-foot cord, while my dad carried the camera. The camera recorded footage on a full-size VHS tape. There's one particular scene on our two-hour-long Glacier National Park video in which one of my brothers is wearing the backpack holding the power pack while my dad is filming. My brother, none too fond of bees at the time, nearly pulls the camera out of my dad's hands while trying to thwart a particularly persistent bumble bee. And, much to my brother's chagrin, we have it all on tape.

Anyway, I digress.

On our vacation to Glacier National Park, we were standing on a grassy hillside speckled with wildflowers and framed on three sides by purple mountains majesty when my dad, caught up in the beauty around him, decided his video needed some background music. He had all of us stand in a row and sing the chorus from one of the songs of Isaiah. It's a beautiful song, and we all knew it well, but as my dad slowly panned the camera past our faces, my sister and I, in our cooler-than-cool pink pleated stonewashed jeans, barely moved our mouths as our eyes darted back and forth looking for anyone who might possibly see us. My younger brother, not quite sure singing on a mountainside was such a bad thing but not wanting to give the impression he was enjoying himself, moved his mouth to the words, but whether any sound came out is yet to be determined. My youngest brother, the lovable ham that he was, sang out loud and clear and didn't care who heard him...though my sister and I no doubt wished he'd tone it down a bit. My mom had her arm around my youngest brother, and when my dad got to her face, she was singing with the joy of someone who understood that surely it is God who saves us, and he's stronger than any of the seemingly infallible mountains, and if we trust him, we don't ever need to be afraid. She understood the significance of the song in that particular setting, and she sang like she meant it.

I love that about my mom: She lives life like she means it. She gives her all to whatever she does, motivated by a deep and seasoned love for Jesus and a firm grip on his promises. She'll be the first to admit that in her more than 30 years as a teacher, her almost 37 years as a pastor's wife, her almost 36 years as a mother, her one year as a missionary in Africa, and her 65 plus years as a believer, there have been a lot of ups and downs, and her faith in God and in the good of humanity has been stomped on and violently shaken. But she never gives up--not on her family, not on her ministry, not on her Savior.

A more recent memory of my mother is from just a month or so ago when I was visiting my parents for a weekend. I went into my parents' bedroom to talk to my mom and there, on her rocking chair, was her open Bible, the pages ear-marked and filled with handwritten notes, the cover faded and worn smooth from being held in her hands. I imagine if her Bible is anything like mine, there are probably tear stains on some of the pages and prayers penciled in some of the margins.

That image of my mom's open Bible encompasses so much of my mom's character and reminds me of the living legacy she and my dad have passed on to all of their kids, the very same legacy their parents passed on to them. It's not millions of dollars or property or priceless heirlooms, all of which mean nothing at the end of this life; instead, they've given us the gift of a planted seed of faith and an appreciation for its value.

I really meant for this blog post to highlight several of the ways my mom is so precious, but I'll end it here for now. I'm sure there will be many more posts to come about my mom...and my dad, as well...given their influence on who I am. It's interesting, though, how I don't really spend a lot of time consciously thinking about who my parents are as people and how they've contributed to my life. Something I love about blogging is it makes me slow down and reflect and remember.

So, Mom, I guess my writer's block was all in my head. And now that I'm done, I'm going back to my word game. Love you!