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Mom had the looks of a rusty nail and a personality to match. Hard years had left her face with deep rifts on each cheek extending from the outside corner of her eye all the way down to her protruding jawbone.
Her hair reflected her conflict between past and present. The disheveled short mop was dyed a prostitute-orange color until about one inch before her scalp where the color suddenly became silver mixed with a few dark brown strands.
The conflict between present and past was everywhere—and in everything. She wore a dress from the fifties…along with a pair of glaring new white Reeboks. The knee-length nylon stockings she wore with the Reeboks had holes in both legs. I felt the sad signs of lost years.
Now I look at her and feel her conflict between two times, two places…and listen. Sitting there in her favorite chair she looks so frail and old, yet with memories now mostly of girlhood times long past. Her voice scratches out noises like a broken needle on an old phonograph record in response to my words. The years of chain smoking had long since stripped away its beauty. Yes, she has weathered many battles, this one.
I stand still in the doorway and gaze upon this stranger I still call “Mom.” My eyes slowly travel upward over her frame until once again with a hush I am completely captivated by the face which shines with the glory and JOY of her newfound Love.
Matthew 18:4 Whoever becomes like this little child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. [GW]
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