Mother’s Day 2013 finds me happy.

Believe me, that is quite an accomplishment. It has been a journey, getting here.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom, from the daughter you chose to ignore, hurt, reject and unjustly accuse at the end of your life.

Your final gift to me was the gift of forgiveness, not on your part, but on mine. I forgive you, almost fully. Not sure when the forgiveness will be complete. Probably some time in the future as my own life slips away.

I have learned from you the most important lesson of my life. I have learned that those we love and trust can and will at one time or another, hurt us. Of course, it is unfortunate that you chose to teach me this as your life ended. You may have enjoyed it, but it caused me great damage, to my soul and psyche. Your rejection so altered my life that it will never, ever be the same, and so I also learned from you to adapt. To roll with the punches. To take each day as they come and do my best not to take life so personally. That way, if I am expecting the worst from people, I usually find myself surprised by the giving and loving nature of most and if I hear someone speak something harsh and untrue, I can display the armor you helped me acquire. Thanks, Mom, for that. It will surely come in handy.

I am happy today because I lived through what most others never have to face (their Mother’s rejection) and I wake up each day with optimism. I can plan and plot and go through the day with hope. I can live my life through my faith that was strengthened by your hurtful accusations, knowing how false they were.

Today, Mom, I can proudly cook my family a great meal and serve it to them with love, unbridled love.  I can cook well, and I believe I owe that to you. Thanks, Mom, for that.

In my home, there are remembrances of your influence. The lavender. The birds. The music I listen to daily. Mom, there is love. Lots of it. I will keep each memory locked tight within me. Good ones. Happy ones.

You may have forgotten me at the end of your life, but I will never, ever forget you. I will celebrate you and continue to love you, as I have my entire life.

I will give away the love you chose to keep from me. I will go out and buy myself some lilies. Peace lilies. To remind myself that though you rejected the lilies I gave you on that last Mother’s day, peace flows through my heart.

Peace, Mom.

When cooking a meal that includes browned hamburger meat (like tacos or casseroles) try this trick:

Get out a large, deep bowl. Find a somewhat flat, small bowl that will fit nicely in the bottom of the larger bowl, and place it in the bowl upside down, ensuring that the small bowl is well fitted to the sides of the larger bowl.

Pour in the browned hamburger meat and place in a warmed oven for 10-15 minutes. The grease in the hamburger meat will slowly drain, running under the bowl and into the space created under it.

You will be amazed at the amound of fat that drains from the hamburger!

Scoop out the hamburger, making sure that you do not disturb the small bowl (and the grease) that rests in the bottom and proceed with your recipe.

#wordlesswednesday

The end of January found me anxious to clean out, clean up, get rid of, get new – in other words, get going. I am in the middle of a gigantic undertaking. There is evidence of some major slacking on my part, little nooks and crannies in my house that have remained stagnant. In my world, stagnant is not a good thing. I like change. I like my scenery renewed, often. Yet, here and there I am finding little corners of sameness that need dealt with.

For instance, behind the door in my bedroom there is a series of shelves that have always held books and whatnots. These shelves have held everything from our do-it-yourself books, to reading books, to cookbooks (there until this morning), to candles, to various other things that needed to be parked somewhere. All of these years, being used the same way, until today, when I looked at the space with new eyes. I am in process of changing that area, as we speak.

Speaking of cookbooks, I have a serious problem. The space that used to hold my vast collection is now a pantry. Which means, for the past 2 1/2 years, my cookbooks have not really had a home. When you own as many cookbooks as I do, that is not good thing, they seriously need a home. The fact that I own so many cookbooks is also a serious problem, but we won’t talk about that. My cookbooks are my constant companions. I read and enjoy my cookbooks, like others read their favorite fiction. (I love my collection of fiction, too, don’t get me wrong.)

Anyway, for a bit of time now, there’s definitely been a mess. An overwhelming mess, to be sure, but a good mess. My son, who is very smart, sums it up like this, “it’s like a Rubic’s cube, you first have a real problem, until you get all of the little cubes exactly where they belong”.

Did I mention how smart my son is?

When I finally get my cookbooks organized, I’m going to share some of them with you and share a recipe, or two, from each cookbook. Something to look forward to. It may take me awhile to get this done, because I keep retreating into my favorite corner, cookbook in hand.

I’m easily distracted, but boy, am I happy.

I recently came upon a hand-written verse that I found when I was a young mother, one that spoke to me then and still speaks to me now. I had scribbled the words out hastily on a small piece of pink paper, obviously in a hurry, wanting to keep a small reminder for a day that would surely one day come. I knew, when I first read the words, that at some point in the future I would long for each precious day again and hoped that I was going to live those moments fully so that there would be no regrets for lost time, lost chances. I didn’t know then, that for most of us, there will always be longing, always be regrets, always be that day when we ask ourselves “did I do okay and did I do everything I should have?”. When we are living our lives, especially in our youth, we think we will never forget the details, thinking instead that we will always remember each and every funny, sad, happy moment.

As we age, we then discover that isn’t always the case. Little details we thought we’d never forget escape into thin air, becoming dust in the wind. While we might not be able to easily recall every thing we file away in our minds, all it takes sometimes is the sight of a child’s barrette, a song on the radio, the voice and laugh of a grandchild and we are re-living an earlier day or moment.

My husband and I have reached that time in our marriage, when we often ask each other ”remember . . . . ? ” and then tell a forgotten story. We smile and say “oh yeah!”, adding our own bits and pieces to the puzzle. We have learned an important lesson - that the person who lived through it with us will help us remember the things we thought we had lost. We only need the spark of another’s memory to help us bring our own memories to the surface, because thankfully it is really all still there, resting in the background and waiting for a good time to shine.  That makes that person next to you all the more important, all the more valuable, doesn’t it?

The time which passes swiftly by,

won’t stop to hear us though we cry,

for days long gone and smiles missed,

for damp curls that we should have kissed,

before they went away.

Sometimes we get a second chance,

to give that needed tender glance,

to touch and hold and share a sigh,

for time it passes swiftly by.

I don’t know who wrote these words, at the time that I found them the author wasn’t important to me, it was the words that I loved. So to the author I say “thank you”, perhaps your words made me more aware. Reading this verse now, I know that the words apply not just in regards to our children, but each and every loved one we share our lives with. We may find ourselves regretting lost moments and times that we weren’t fully present, fully listening. In most cases, we give what we can, to each moment, each person. Can we do better? Of course we can. Is it okay that we fall short at times? Of course it is.

The important thing is that we realize that we are all in this together, living and doing our best. I love that I can look back on earlier times and feel confident I gave it my best shot. To all young mothers out there reading this, maybe this verse will speak to you, too. Let the dust gather a bit. Hold your babies. Listen to your kids, have meaningful conversations with your teenagers, give them the time they deserve, and while you’re at it, take good mental notes – maybe even write a few things down.

For time, it passes swiftly by.

                           Maybe Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store, maybe Christmas . . .                                                  perhaps  . . . means a little bit more.     ~ Dr. Seuss

My husband, the quiet soul, had his début as Santa this year.  I have to admit I was unsure about how it would go. He didn’t talk much about it before hand, just agreed to do it and went on with his days. We each asked him, a little nervously, if he was ready. He just laughed and said “yes”.

As I was helping him into his Santa outfit, something happened.

It was just my husband and I in the room, and as we slipped on the beard and the wig and then the glasses, I was hit with a feeling so strong, it almost knocked me to my knees. I had to take a second to catch my breath, but I was too late, because the breath became a sob. I couldn’t control it.

 As Santa stood before me, I didn’t see my husband. I saw my Dad. My Dad, as Santa.

In an instant, I was hit with the most profound sense of loss and longing.

My husband, poor guy, asked “what’s wrong?” and I choked out a tearful, “I miss my Dad”.

That was it. The entire time we worked to get him dressed as Santa, I tried unsuccessfully to stop the tears.  I couldn’t stop the overwhelming sadness. I lost my Dad years ago, but looking at Santa brought a new wave of loss.

Through the tears, we also laughed. My husband was getting really hot in the costume and his glasses were starting to fog. Each time I bent to put on his boots, my nose started dripping. We struggled to get the pillow to stay where it needed to be. It was pretty comical.

My Dad played Santa for years for his grandchildren – my kids and my nieces and nephews. He loved doing it. Since our grandchildren have just gotten old enough for Santa, this year was the first for our family to re-new the tradition.

I gathered my wits and dried my tears. It was time for Santa to make his appearance. I raced upstairs. Santa arrived at the front door, ringing his bells with a jolly “Ho, Ho, Ho”.

I looked at one of my daughters and then the other. Tears were running down their cheeks and they were obviously upset, but smiling through their tears. My son was showing distress but keeping it together.  They felt it, too. Their Grandpa had just shown up in the room.

After a very successful and joyous visit, Santa made his exit, ringing his bells as he left.

Our granddaughter was shy at first, but thrilled.  She proclaimed, after he had left, “I like Santa!”. The one-year old was curious and smiling. The 5 month old had no idea who the new visitor was, but looked intently at the jolly old man.

My husband had somehow managed to sound nothing like himself. He sounded nothing like Grandpa. He sounded just like Santa. He looked just like Santa. For a short time, my husband was Santa. It was magical . . .

and it was, for those who remembered,  much more than that.

Santa didn’t just visit the kids this year, he visited my daughters, he visited my son, he visited me. We were transported to an earlier time, an earlier place, where we had our Dad and our Grandpa with us again.  We cried because we missed him, we cried because we again felt his love. We cried because we each felt the loss of family. We hid our tears from the kids to ensure they felt nothing but excitement and joy.

My husband had an opportunity to take over for my Dad and play Santa, for his grandbabies. My daughters got to show their husbands a little of what they experienced as children. I, again, had a moment in time with my father.

My husband did an amazing job as Santa. There was a twinkle in his eyes, long into the night.

My Dad was in the room with all of us this Christmas Eve, just as sure as Christ’s love surrounded us.

Merry Christmas, Dad. Your spirit and love live on. We love you and miss you.