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Before I was a Mom
Before I was a mom
I made and ate hot meals.
I had unstained clothing.
I had quiet conversations on the phone.
Before I was a Mom
I slept as late as I wanted
and never worried about how late I got into bed.
I brushed my hair and my teeth everyday.
Before I was Mom
I cleaned my house each day.
I never tripped over toys or forgot words to
lullabies.
Before I was a Mom
I didn't worry whether or not my plants were poisonous.
I never thought about immunizations.
Before I was a Mom
I had never been puked on
pooped on
spit on
chewed on
peed on
or pinched by tiny fingers
Before I was a Mom
I had complete control of my mind
my thoughts
my body
and my mind.
I slept all night.
Before I was a Mom
I never held down a screaming child
so that doctors could do tests
or give shots.
I never looked into teary eyes and cried.
I never got gloriously happy over a simple grin.
I never sat up late hours at night watching a baby sleep.
Before I was a Mom
I never held a sleeping baby just because
I didn't want to put it down.
I never felt my heart break into a million pieces
when I couldn't stop the hurt.
I never knew that something so small
could affect my life so much.
I never knew that I could love someone so much.
I never knew I would love being a Mom.
Before I was a Mom
I didn't know the feeling of having my heart outside my body.
I didn't know how special it could feel to feed a
hungry baby.
I didn't know that bond between a Mother and
her child.
I didn't know that something so small
could make me feel so important.
Before I was a Mom
I had never gotten up in the middle of the night
every 10 minutes to make sure all was ok
I had never known the warmth
the joy
the love
the heartache
the wonderful mental or
the satisfaction of being a Mom.
I didn't know I was capable of feeling so much
before I was a Mom
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Mom's Last Laugh
Consumed by my loss, I didn't notice the hardness of the pew
where I sat. I was at the funeral of my dearest friend -- my
mother. She finally had lost her long battle with cancer.
The
hurt was so intense, I found it hard to breathe at times.
Always supportive, Mother clapped loudest
at my school
plays, held a box of tissues while listening to my first
heartbreak, comforted me at my father's death, encouraged me
in college, and prayed for me my entire life. When Mother's
illness was diagnosed, my sister had a new baby and my
brother had recently married his childhood sweetheart, so it fell
on me, the 27-year-old middle child without entanglements, to
take care of her. I counted it an honor.
"What now, Lord?" I asked sitting in church.
My life
stretched out before me as an empty abyss. My brother sat
stoically with his face toward the cross while clutching his
wife's hand. My sister sat slumped against her husband's
shoulder, his arms around her as she cradled their child. All
were so deeply grieving, no one noticed I sat al one.
My place had been with our mother, preparing
her meals,
helping her walk, taking her to the doctor, seeing to her
medication, reading the Bible together. Now she was with the
Lord. My work was finished, and I was alone.
I heard a door open and slam shut at the back
of the
church. Quick footsteps hurried along the carpeted floor.
An
exasperated young man looked around briefly and then sat
next to me. He folded his hands and placed them on his lap.
His eyes were brimming with tears. He began to sniffle. "I'm
late," he explained, though no explanation was necessary.
After several eulogies, he leaned over and
commented,
"Why do they keep calling Mary by the name of 'Margaret'?"
"Because Margaret was her name. Never Mary. No one
called her 'Mary'," I whispered. I wondered why this person
couldn't have sat on the other side of the church. He
interrupted my grieving with his tears and fidgeting. Who was
this stranger anyway?
"No, that isn't correct," he insisted, as
several people
glanced over at us whispering, "Her name is Mary Peters."
"That isn't who this is."
"Isn't this the Lutheran church?"
"No, the Lutheran church is across the street."
"I believe you're at the wrong funeral, sir."
The solemnness of the occasion mixed with
the realization
of the man's mistake bubbled up inside me and came out as
laughter. I cupped my hands over my face, hoping it would be
interpreted as sobs. The creaking pew gave me away. Sharp
looks from other mourners only made the situation seem more
hilarious. I peeked at the bewildered, misguided man seated
beside me. He was laughing, too, as he glanced around,
deciding it was too late for an uneventful exit. I imagined
Mother laughing.
At the final "Amen," we darted out a
door and into the
parking lot. "I do believe we'll be the talk of the town," he
smiled. He said his name was Rick and since he had missed
his aunt's funeral, asked me out for a cup of coffee.
That afternoon began a lifelong journey for
me with this man
who attended the wrong funeral but was in the right place. A
year after our meeting, we were married at a country church
where he was the assistant pastor. This time we both arrived at
the same church, right on time. In my time of sorrow, God
gave me laughter. In place of loneliness, God gave me love.
This past June we celebrated our twenty-second wedding
anniversary. Whenever anyone asks us how we met, Rick tells
them, "Her mother and my Aunt Mary introduced us, and it's
truly a match made in heaven. |
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