Closet Tears

Two years ago when I had my mastectomy, my mom and my sister, Debbie, flew in from Wisconsin to take care of me which actually translated into spoiling me rotten.  But hey, you don’t hear me complaining now, do you?

In the midst of my pain-killer induced loopiness, it was especially nice to have my family so close. Mom even cheerfully put my socks on for me when it hurt too much for me to bend over.  She did that task for me when I was a little girl and still hadn’t lost her touch all those decades later.

(By the way, the white thing hanging beneath my shirt is the pouch I wore to hold my four surgical drains; they were attached to my body through all manners of tubing and insertion points.  It was great fun, I tell you.)

Sadly, I had not seen my mom since that April 2010 visit so I was especially excited that our recent trip to Wisconsin gave me the chance to spend more time with the woman who gave me life, the woman who is at least half responsible for the semi lovely person I have turned out to be.

During the part of our vacation that we stayed at Debbie’s house, Mom stayed there, too.  I had to smile when I walked by the back porch one morning and saw her sitting and reading a book, surrounded by plants, birds, and early morning quietude.

She and Sarah and I are very much alike in that regard.  If we have a book in our hand, there is not a whole lot more that we need.  It’s nice to know that book loving is a passable down, hereditary trait, which I think basically means that Sarah’s children stand no chance of escaping this part of their heritage.  They will doubtlessly be reading at six months.  (Or earlier.)

Later that same day, the ladies in the clan took a stroll through Debbie’s lovely, small town neighborhood.   Sarah and Meagan went on ahead and had deep and profound Smithster chatter.  (Either that or they were talking about jewelry and clothes.)

Debbie, Mom and I lagged behind a little and took some time to smell the roses—as well as other Wisconsin flora. Mom is one of those people who is a noticer of all things.. No winged creature, no blade of grass, no plant, no flower, no small creature escapes her glance . . .  or her appreciation.

I alternated between walking beside Mom and Deb and sprinting up ahead of them to take pictures.  I have no doubt that my alarming leaping and sprinting ahead maneuvers were a bit disconcerting to them but they managed to keep their poise and pretend like nothing strange was going on.

I then told Debbie she had to do her own leaping ahead so that Mom and I could pose in our very own picture.

The way back home led us up a bit of an incline and I was very touched to see Debbie position herself behind Mom to give her a little extra pushing power as they walked.

Debbie is in an incredibly devoted, loving, thoughtful caregiver; she lives just a mile from Mom’s assisted living facility and has developed the uncanny trait of being there for Mom before she even has a chance to realize she needs anything!

They are both such amazing, inspiring women.

Since I hadn’t yet seen the place that Mom moved to following Dad’s death,  I was especially curious to walk through the rooms and see which things had accompanied Mom into this season of her life.

One of the first things I saw was this envelope laying out on the table . . . an envelope with my dad’s handwriting.

It says, “ Precious Jo Ann,  Thanks for 51 awesome years.  You are precious and special to Him and to me and so many others.  Happy 51st Anniversary!”

He died just a year or so after he wrote that card.

As I walked through my mom’s house, I saw birds . . .

. . .  and Bibles.

I saw the picture of her and Dad at their wedding. . .

. . . and I saw lots and lots of books.  In addition to the books, there were many bins full of the journals Mom has kept for thirty or more years.   Mom loves to write, just like certain daughters of hers.

I noticed a special pillow hanging on her closet door with a saying that pretty well sums up what Mom believes.  Through the good times of her life and the hard times (and she’s had many), she has always found her hope and help and joy in the Lord.

Out of all the things I saw in her apartment that day, it was the closet that made me cry.

In all my fifty years of life, I have never looked into my parents’ closet without seeing the clothes for both of them.

And it hit me all over again.

While my dad’s writings and his Bible and his prayers and his love were still all around us, this closet containing just Mom’s clothes told the story more poignantly than anything else ever could. He was gone.

I cried standing in front of her closet because I saw what wasn’t there as much as what was.   I saw the unmistakable marks of a woman living alone after living fifty-three years side by side and heart to heart with the man she loved.

It was a tough, sad, sweet moment.

But you know what?   I am so happy to say that my mom has adjusted to widowhood with courage and dignity and she is living life on her own with the greatest grace.  If there’s anyone on earth who has perfected the art of being content in any circumstance, that would be my mom; her heart is anchored to peace.

When we finally left her place that summer afternoon, she grabbed her walker and took off down the hall at a clip that left us young ‘uns gasping for breath.

We actually had to tell her to slow down a couple of times.  As you can see in this photo, Nathan and Meagan were having a hard time keeping up.

She stopped for a moment to check out in the lobby of her home . . .

. . . and then she was off again on the adventure called life, an adventure she has been on for almost eighty years. And as I spent time with her during our visit, I found myself hoping that I have even half her grace and her zest for life when I have traveled another thirty years down my own road.

Mom has never been one to talk a whole lot but then again, she hasn’t needed to.   Her years are her story–and they have been well lived and well told.

I’ll close with a few vintage pictures …

I have no clue what year this was but I’ve always loved this photo.

On this particular night,  I drove quite a ways to meet Mom and Dad at a church where Dad was preaching a special series of meetings. (I think I was about 39 in this photo–a mere child.)

This one needs no words.

On another Wisconsin visit several years ago, our family accompanied Mom and Dad to one of the many rest homes they did weekly services at.   And now, where Mom lives, there is a piano in the lobby and she goes in there often and plays hymns for the other residents; the ministry she and dad did together hasn’t really stopped.

Books, words, prayer, music . . . so glad for the gifts that have been passed down and the gifts that are still being given.