Standing in the shadowy memories of years long passed, I read my mother’s words and knew she was writing about me.
“Her dreams are as ambitious as a tornado. Today, she has decided she wants to be a foreign missionary after she gets back home from her work as an astronaut. I hope she will always be as determined and unassuming as she is now,” she wrote in the beautiful cursive that was all her own.
Today, my mother would be celebrating her 90th birthday. It was this that we talked about in my last conversation with her. “Are you sure I’m going to be 90? I guess I’ve lied too much about my age to believe it!” I assured her it was true, and we were going to have a big party to celebrate.
With the death of the last parent, there is much to work through. Beside me is a black case filled with postcards, each one portraying art of a bygone era. There are many photo albums and scrapbooks, an enormous labor of love and precious time my mother spent saving stories of those she cared about.
Measuring what is the most valuable lies in the eyes of the beholder. I learned this long ago from my father, who valued family above all else. A sentimental soul, he saved up gas money as a teen so he could drive his siblings to visit an aunt and uncle on weekends. When he began dating my mother, it was this aunt and uncle they went to visit on their second date.
Looking at an old black and white photograph taken of this small family group taken outside of their home, the love and respect my dad felt for this aunt and uncle is so evident it brings tears to my eyes.
As we walk through life, we love and lose everyone who mattered most in our childhood. My dad taught me that, too. After losing his mother when he was so young, he knew to treasure the family he had and the family he built. He reminded us often to appreciate having a mother.
No matter how many birthdays we are given, each day is worthy of celebration with those who matter the most.
Absolutely beautiful and oh so true.