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My Mother’s Legacy
As a young child, I remember waking up early and creeping down stairs to watch cartoons. I’d invariably find my mother sitting at the kitchen table, her well read bible opened, a cup of hot tea and buttered toast beside it. She’d always have a notebook, pen, and several highlighters with her as she studied God’s Word in depth.
I’d straggle in, blurry eyed from staying up past my bed time reading Nancy Drew mysteries or rushing to finish forgotten homework. She would always greet me with a most pleasant smile and a cheerful “Hi babe!” followed by the latest insight God had shared with her. My mother always seemed overly cheerful; I’d think she was a cheerleader in a past life if I bought into that whole reincarnation hooey.
Her good-natured attitude didn’t come from a past life though. It came from the deepest faith in God I have ever seen, besides possibly the faith of my maternal grandmother; the apple didn’t fall far from her family tree. Throughout my childhood, my family had many rough times, but my mother taught us, through her living example, to rely on God.
When I was in fifth or sixth grade, my Uncle Richard, mom’s only sibling, died. Her parents were understandably devastated, especially grandma Mary. Mom stood by them, praying for us all, and seemed to never loose faith that God could work this for his glory, despite her personal agony over the loss of her little brother.
Our family has never been well to do as far as money was concerned. In fact, many times there was no money to be found—not even in our sofa cushions. My father typically found odd jobs in the field of construction. Often there was just no work to be found. Despite the continuous financial setbacks, my mother has always been quick to give God praise.
Just before I turned sixteen, my father was arrested. When I first heard the news, I assumed it was because of his very delinquent taxes. My mother had the burden of telling me it was due to molestation allegations, which were eventually verified as true; he wouldn’t be coming home any time soon.
Because of the previously mentioned taxes, my mother’s wages were eventually garnished. She was left to live on a portion of what was barely more than a pauper’s salary to begin with.
Our garage was full of dad’s tools, ranging from small and common ones to job specific whatcha-ma-callits mom didn’t have a name for. Dad mailed her a list of their values and told her to sale all of them in order to keep a roof over our heads for a little while longer.
She knew that a yard sale was the only solution, but looking at dad’s list, she still had no clue which price corresponded to which bizarre device. Some were very pricey and could really help us if sold at value, but mom worried her ignorance would allow her to be taken advantage of. Her faith was put into practice yet again.
Mom placed an ad in the paper and prayed honest men would come and buy up the entire collection. Soon after she had laid everything out on the lawn, my brother in law who lived out of town showed up unexpectedly.
His presence was an answer to mom’s prayers because he had actually worked with my dad. He was knowledgeable enough of the tools that he was able to take over the burden of pricing. The sale ended up being a success; we could stay in our home. Mom sighed a sigh of relief along with her praises of thankfulness.
Now as an adult, I sit at my kitchen table reading God’s Word. The fragrance of hot tea drifting up to my nostrils, I close my eyes, inhaling deeply. The aroma takes me back to those early childhood memories. I think of mom’s quiet times with God and her less than quiet faith. I pray that I can live the example she has, allowing my son’s to see my faith in action.
My son Jon wakes up rubbing his eyes and stumbles to the bathroom. When he returns, he comes to sit on my lap. I cheerfully say “Hi babe” and squeeze him tightly.
“Watcha doing mom?” He asks, looking down at the array on the table before me.
I smile, as the doorway is open to pass down my mother’s legacy.
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