Momma, This One's For You
An Introduction Such as This
needs a steady hand as well as a sturdy thought strand. Why? Check the topic: Mother. Yours and mine. And any attempt that I write to try and (truly) define the term, Motherhood, to such an understood item, would give me the shakes--worse than a rough Saturday night drinking cheap whiskey and losing poker money.
But on the other hand, I am not about to try and emulate (a) Paul Harvey, Lewis Grizzard or Dr. Hunter S. Thompson because in (this) arena, I would be lost, start to panic at the IQ amount given by each prolific writer, and just cut and run. Nobody, I think, would stand in judgement if I did.
But I won't. I will do my best to give my best and bear it all that is anything decent, fair, loving, and patient: my mom. A woman by the Grand Design, Maker, and never complained at her lot in life that I can tell you here and now, her life was sad, depressing, and from my eyes (at ages 7 through 12), it looked as she was being either put on trial for some dark sin or being punished for something she did and never understood. People with narrowness of mind and sight all hated my mom and even to this day, I am left to wonder why when I know that she only did her best and even swallowed a lot of these stiff-necked lizards just to let me have a meal before bed. The details of "these" situations stem from my dad's family--most of them died before she did. Although she showed my dad, her husband, his due respect in his bereavement and never shed a tear. I didn't either. I could have easily acted like I was going to miss these inlaws, but God is all-seeing--inside and out, so I just stood it. When I was a kid, my grandpa hated me and treated me like I was some stray dog looking for water. And this was not by accident, but on purpose. And you have to wonder why my eyes were not filled with sadness?
Writers of Songs, Books, and Poems
have and will continue to publish a certain number of pieces telling everything about their inspired topics, but when it comes to my mother, I sit and stare into m computer screen and look oh, so empty and barren of words that I wish that I could string-together a group of proper sentences to make my mother happy from her lofty place in Heaven. I truly believe that she's there. Probably helping those that cannot help themselves. She was like that. I always thought that it was more of a gift than anything else. My mom was like this for every day of her life. Furthermore, I feel that my mom deserved the mega-peaceful place where she is now.
Mothers are not created, but have "that" certain feeling or inward gift that when she sees the helplessness of a child, her arms and heart, react as if by some wordless command and both of her arms reach to comfort this child no matter if the child is hers or not. Mothers across the entire world do not have to attend any school or institute of higher learning to become those special people who stand out from the cold world today. Why? Simply put, they are way too busy comforting their children, husband, siblings, and friends. My mother and the word "sacrificial" seen in Webster's Dictionary, should be seen and read together. That one word encompasses how she loved; how she gave of herself when she was so sick of body that she could barely walk and was always willing to listen to me, my sister, and dad tell her the troubles of their world.
Mothers are all, and I am not being flip, color-blind. There is no racial boundaries when it comes to a mother raising her children in the darkest regions of the Amazon Jungle Areas to my mother who gave up her mother when she was only three--but she stood at the graveside without really grasping the event for what it was. In the years to come, I would see my mom's mom through her warm character and unbiased mindset work all without her knowing just how special she was.
Probably by now, you have already bought "that" Mother's Day card and skimmed over the verse inside without even thinking what the words meant. I know. I was guilty of this way too much when I went to shop for my mom a pretty gift and a card and no matter what I gave her, it was all met by a loving smile and a statement: "now you know that I do not require any gifts. Just letting me see you for a few minutes will be gift enough for me."
And in the years that followed her going to Heaven, how true that statement really was.
My mom's name was Mary Dean (Lee) Avery, born June 2, 1922. Passed August 19, 2010. Eight years. Eight of the longest, darkest, and senseless years that I have ever lived. Not that I am putting my mom above yours, it's just that when a key member of any family has ran their race and did their very best, it becomes so past sadness when it's their time to go to the Scriptural Rest found in the Book of Hebrews.
But rest? No work to do ever in Heaven? I can tell you that my mom upon her arrival, went about what she knew to do: serve and give. And in closing, the one verse of scripture says it best about my mom and her life with me, my sister and dad. It is found in John 15:13, 13 Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.
And how true this verse is. I saw it be fulfilled countless times as I grew up do for others and love the ones that others have forsaken.
Happy Mother's Day in Heaven, Mother. I Love and Miss you.
© 2018 Kenneth Avery