Mother's Day

5/10/09 a.m.
My first waking thought this morning was about Mother. All those second Sundays in May when she would cut a red rose for us to wear to the First Methodist Church, are as much a part of growing up as anything I can remember. I always felt bad for anyone who had to wear a white rose, because that meant his/her mother had died. Through the years, I’ve seen ladies at church with a corsage, no more simple roses freshly cut from the garden like we had. Today I saw none---maybe because I wasn’t at a traditional service.
Since May 2002, my first Mother’s Day without her, I have looked longingly at the red roses outside my bathroom window. When my children were younger, I cut buds from that bush for them to wear, even my boys. This past January, when I was diagnosed with MAC, I wondered if they would remember that tradition, the one that would have them wear a white rose, if the Lord chose to take me home. I also was grateful that Mother did not have to go through my rare cancer diagnosis because I thought it would have broken her heart. My mother had tremendous strength for most things. During her heart attacks and cancer battle, her doctors dubbed her a “tough old bird.” But “bad” things involving her children or grandchildren were heartrending. Her own suffering she could endure---but not that of family.
Yet, I think, Mother, my #1 cheerleader, would have loved seeing all the folks that the Lord sent to “cheer” me along. That visible goodness of the Lord in the land of the living would have thrilled her heart. If she could see from heaven, I bet she’s throwing rose petals, both red and white, some for me and some for her.