I didn’t write on mother’s day. I didn’t write anything about my mom.
I didn’t write about all the things I love about her or the many ways she’s blessed me.
I didn’t tell her that she is the most faithful woman I know. She had to be, to put up with us kids and my dad.
I didn’t tell her that the prayers she prayed for me during the years when I was lost and angry and wandering were heard and answered. I didn’t tell her that her time in prayer and on her knees have shaken the heavens even though she seems timid and meek.
I didn’t tell her that my heart and world view will always be skewed because of her love for third world missions and the way she raised us to think and question and live out our convictions. I didn’t tell her that she taught me to love well and fully by humbly serving. I didn’t tell her that if we move to Africa some day, she’s coming with us, because if anyone can handle huge change and foreign soil it’s her.
I didn’t tell her that I still stink at laundry and she really should have been on me more in my teen years because I am such a lousy housekeeper now, but oh well, I’m learning. Not laundry, but other stuff, kind of.
I didn’t tell her that she is brave and fierce, even though she followed God’s call in so many areas from taking her babies to Nepal in the early eighties with $75 and no commitment for more support, to facing the terrifying reality her child may die, to losing her husband.
I didn’t tell her that since my dad’s death, her living with us is the biggest blessing, even if she still bosses me around sometimes or tells me to clean my room.
I didn’t tell her that I am a writer because I am a reader and that my love of books was born in the crook of her arm, nestled onto her lap while her melodic voice danced over me, creating worlds and imagery that would still stir me at 33 as I read them to my children.
I didn’t tell her that she has always had my back, from the times when the mean girls would leave me crying into my pillow, to the depressions that would follow the birthing of my babies, to the insecurities and fears that mock me.
I didn’t tell her that there is no one who knows me better or loves me more. I didn’t tell her that she is my BFF, my go to gal when I have a funny story, and the one who will tell it like it is when I need to be put in my place.
I didn’t tell her that she is the only one I will let in the dressing room with me when I am shopping for a swimsuit because she’s honest and everyone can use a good laugh now and again.
I didn’t tell her that she always gives the best gifts because she really listens and sees people.
I didn’t write any of that before mother’s day because I got to hang out with her ALONE, (meaning no kids), for the weekend and being with her is always better than sitting at my keyboard writing about her. And did I mention a weekend with no kids?
We got to hang out and lay around and read and go to Goodwill, garage sales, and the fabric store with no kids. Can you tell I don’t get out much?
Plus, she reads to me to fall asleep when my kindle is out of batteries. That’s dedication, plus I think she wanted me to go to sleep and stop yakking all night, but still.
To my mom: The woman I would pick as my best friend even if she weren’t my mom. I love you.