Yvonne Naomi

I am my mother’s son.  Thankfully.  I am certain that I bear certain maternally inherited character flaws, but they are so overwhelmingly dwarfed by the capacity for joy, the love of laughter, the depth of empathy, the solidity of patience, the longsuffering of forgiveness, the rare caution with words, the endurance of unselfishness, and the sheer ability to love of my Mother – I have little room for excuse. 

If, as Dad is fond of saying, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” then I could not have had a better view of the autumn sky than to gaze up through the branches above me.

Concern for others was the atmosphere of my childhood.  To serve someone requires no special giftedness, no unique talent or skill as such.  Love asks not “What can I do?” but rather “What do you need?”  How to grieve with those who grieve; or to tactfully, humbly, patiently find a way to help. An understanding tear, a silent look of incomprehensible sorrow, a hand held.  Coming of age in the presence of compassion; floundering, wobbling as a new calf trying to stand and finding, there in the beauty of spring, a mother whose grace and simplicity would teach me more than I could know about being human, about being Christ-like in a hurting world. That was the gift of the woman who raised me, who loved me so naturally as a part of the world she has loved so well, so completely and with such noble kindness.

I remember picking blueberries with Mom when I was very young.  She would drive out on sandy fire lanes to find blueberry patches in the Jackpines.  She pulled our socks up over our pantlegs to keep the ticks and red ants off.  We picked blueberries in the peaceful shade of summer.  I hear just now the quiet thumping of the first berries falling into the ice cream pail.  I know she loves picking blueberries, but it is difficult to prioritize her reasons.  It could be the simple pleasure of doing a task efficiently and cleanly.  Or the tranquility of the northwoods in July.  Perhaps it was the hours alone with her young children, hours she certainly knew were fast fleeting.  But I imagine that her highest joy in picking blueberries has always been the foreknowledge of her family enjoying pie together some evening at the cabin.

Mom has spent much of her life loving children and the elderly.  It is impossible to say how many neighborhood children, nieces, nephews, and grandchildren she has cared for.  As far back as I can remember and beyond, Mom has spent part of her Sundays in the company of young children.  Perhaps this was not unusual or notable for women of her generation, but it strikes me just now that she has been teaching Sunday School and helping in the nursery for over 50 years.  I’m guessing she has felt an obligation at times - that is the plain reality of love – but I have never heard her mention anything close to complaint or burden in this regard.

I have the sense that if you asked Mom if she felt gifted to teach children or called to minister in the nursery, she would be a bit puzzled.  Objectively, she certainly is gifted – she loves children, enjoys their company, loves to smile and to hug them.  But my sense is that she has never considered herself gifted to minister to children.  In fact, I rather wonder if she considers herself at all.

I most often observe Mom quietly and unpretentiously doing small, largely unnoticed acts of service in every context of her life.  Driving shut-ins to appointments or dropping off groceries for them.  Visiting nursing homes and hospitals.  Nothing ever seemed planned or organized - a pure, simple kindness permeates her thought and impulse.  You have to elbow your way to the dishpan in her presence, and you need to do it with a hearty laugh – it displaces her, and unless you can convince her that you have genuine happiness and joy taking it on, she will be uncomfortable relinquishing any opportunity to serve, even in the smallest things.

To be truthful, she does show anxiety at times, she does try to do too much.  I can’t in fairness to her laud her persistent and tireless caring without recognizing the toll it takes on her.  She lives with stress and bears others burdens on multiple levels.  I need to recognize this and forgive it, absolve Mom on some level to the extent I am authorized.  It is an act of kindness toward her, but also one of self-preservation.  This particular whirlpool of anxiety draws me as well.  I guess that if, as the Scriptures say, we are to be zealous in doing good, if we are to pour ourselves out, to not flag in zeal – then this is the logical tendency.  Of course we’re also called to be anxious for nothing, to rest in the surpassing peace of Christ.  Still for a compassionate servant like Mom, this balance is sometimes beyond her capacity.  I do know that her needle will always tip toward concern rather than apathy.  I hope to err on that side as well.

One last remembrance to share.  When my mother was my age and I was a young adult, I told her that I wanted to visit the elderly in nursing homes, but that I didn’t know how to begin.  With the wisdom of someone who honored her elders, Mom took me to visit Myrtle Freeburg, an elderly widow who spent her twilight years ministering to Alzheimer’s patients.  For many years, Myrtle was a mentor to Mom, a spiritual mother in the best biblical sense.  Myrtle influenced Mom in much the way Mom has influenced me.  I am struck just now at the profound impact of that visit with Myrtle.  Someone with so much practical wisdom and courage borne from prayer, a treasure of a human person living a few hundred yards from our small country church.  I hope to live up to that legacy of faith for as long as God gives me breath.

“… at the root of real honor is always the sense of the sacredness of the person who is its object. In the particular instance of your mother, I know that if you are attentive to her in this way, you will find a very great loveliness in her.” Pastor John Ames – Gilead.  Marilynne Robinson

I stop to honor my Mother, I sense the sacredness of her, I find a very great loveliness in her.  I hope I can live up to the Fifth Commandment, there is great joy in trying.

Thank you, Mom.  I will forever be grateful to you.