I spent yesterday with Mother.
When I arrived her mood was gentle. She welcomed me wearing my favorite dress of hers—the crystalline teal outfit with bright white edges. Stunning and breathtaking. Her blue aura framed with pale puffs told me that while the moment was calm, within an hour or so all hell could break loose and she may rage. But that’s the way Mother is and that’s why I spent my day with her.
I had hoped to learn more from her—you know how to show grace and forgiveness when I’ve been abused, or how to find ways toward healing after a brutal assault upon my person. Patience and tolerance are Mother’s other assets that I should mimic.
But like most children, I don’t always appreciate her until my time of need. I don’t always give her the respect she’s earned, nor do I tread upon her soul and well-being lightly. I’m not one of her better daughters.
. That said, there are elements of my life that ambush me from my good intentions.
So I write and send cards to my siblings in an effort to remind us that Mother is extraordinary. Sometimes I think I sound preachy—but I’m usually scolding myself for my own disparaging of today’s rules to help Mother’s wounds heal.
My time with her yesterday rewarded me with some sun-kissed flesh, relaxed blood pressure, and renewed my commitment to work on her behalf—however miniscule my efforts may be.