My mother was a professional homemaker. Not the fancy, delicate kind. Just the good, solid, comfortable, inviting kind. She planted petunias and pansies because they were hearty. She was a good cook. She didn’t have a large variety when it came to her menu options, but we always knew there would be a hot meal waiting for us after a day at school/work. Both she and my father were from Iowa, so strong work ethic, small talk, and meat and potatoes were our staples growing up.
She was the oldest of 9. She knew how to milk a cow and drive a tractor. She was physically very strong. She hated to exercise. She married her high-school sweetheart at age 18 and helped to pay for the wedding with the money she made working part-time at the bowling alley in their town of 800 people.
She was very smart though she never went to college. But more importantly, she was wise. I still read from the One Year Bible that used to sit on the kitchen island after her time with Jesus every morning. Its margins are full of dates. Records of the battles: the losses and the victories that she fought with the Lord in prayer. She probably spent more time praying than anything else. She was constantly taking people before the throne. She had God’s ear, and if I needed to see a mountain move, I knew to ask for Mom’s help.
She cared about people. After her death, we realized this truth in an even greater way. She gave much of her spending money away to charities. She took time to talk to people, but mostly to listen. A few months after she had passed, my dad was mailing something at the post office in our city of 14,000 people. Somehow he got into conversation with the woman behind the counter about my mother. The woman remembered her and began to cry, thinking about how friendly mom was to her each time she came in to mail her packages. She even made the mail lady cry!
She knew how to keep a secret. She VERY rarely spoke poorly of anyone. And if she did, it was usually in defense of one of her kids (mostly my brother! LOL!) She was not a gossip. She honestly strove to assume the best about others. And she was a peace-maker. I remember asking her why she didn’t stand up to people more and defend herself when needed. She told me that after cancer nearly took her life when she was in her early 30s, she realized that it just wasn’t worth it. Very few battles were actually worth fighting. The small offenses and grievances that sidelined others just seemed to roll off her back.
I find now that she is gone, I look at old photos of her differently. I don’t just look at the people in the pictures but also how she put her life together.
The keys in the bowl beside the telephone. The Sunday newspaper spread out on the dining room table. Her clip-on earrings and bangle bracelet laid on the bookshelf immediately after returning home. Her presence.
I miss so much about her. Shortly after she passed away, my husband asked me what I remember most about my mom. I couldn’t put a finger on it. Memories of my mother are so different to those of my father. Childhood memories with Dad usually center around an activity: horseback riding, camping, playing baseball. Memories of my mother are hard to define. It’s as though she was childhood. I can’t think of many standout memories of her because she exists in all of them. She is like the thread of quilt. The substance that holds it all together but doesn’t draw any attention to itself. In fact, the part you often take for granted until it’s gone.
And home did unravel when she left. My husband and I and our then 2-year-old son returned home for China to be with her during the last few weeks of her life. I was 7 months pregnant with our daughter. After she passed, we were able to stay with my father during what would be the most difficult transition of his life. How does one become two again?
Her absence left us groping for a way to do life. Holidays, birthdays, someone to call when I needed advice or encouragement. A new way had to be found. And we are finding it.
The poet Nayyirah Waheed said, “My mother was my first country, the first place I ever lived.” Mother. The one who teaches you what a woman is to be. The first culture we learn. The ever-present helper, defender, friend. Our true north.
And so my compass now points to a higher place. A place where there will be no more tears. Where I will hear her golden laughter once again and watch her play my with children. Where we will feast and drink to the best of life for an eternity. And where we will see our precious Jesus and thank Him for making a way for us all to be Home once again, together.
Brooke Grangard has a heart for people to know Jesus and grow in Him. She and her husband spent the last 10 years on the mission field in East Asia with their two young children. They recently returned to the States and continue as full-time volunteers in Missions with CMM. She is currently based out of the Carolinas. You can find her writing about life and faith at The Vinepress or follow her on Facebook, Twitter, or Pinterest.
