Meditations on my mother.

By Russell King In the book of Luke, as were told a few stories about Jesus as a boy, were also told His mother stored up all these things in her heart. More than that, were told she treasured all these things and pondered them in her heart. When I think of my mother, I think of that scripture. She treasured the life of our family, she pondered it in her heart. She was the keeper of our family story, and she kept it as you would keep the thing you love most. She knew our joys and our pain, she knew where we had been, what we had come through and whom we had become. And she kept the story documented by photos, letters, clippings and little items saved over the years others have long forgotten. People without understanding, without eyes to see, saw it as clutter, but in fact it was treasure. Our treasure. Our lives. One of her favorite stories, and one of mine, happened when I was about 6. We had an especially hard winter that year, and to burn off some of the pent-up childhood energy, Mom would chase me around our unfinished basement. Id run around and weave between the metal support beams, laughing hysterically and cheerfully calling Catch me, Mommy! Catch me! She chased me around, letting me stay just out of her grasp, then swept me up into her arms, kissed me, and set me down to run some more. It is a memory that feels like a metaphor. As I grew, I went my own way, started my own family, left my childhood behind but never too far behind. Mom and I, over the years, made certain that she was always just one step away, always within reach. Just beneath the surface of my today, there was always our yesterday; just beneath the surface of her son, there was

always my mother. My mother came into this world, the first, but the smallest, of three sisters born that day. She was given the name Mellidean Alva Cripps, but for the first half of her life, they called her Tiny. The funny thing is, her stature was the only thing about her that was tiny. Her heart was big. Her love was bigger. Her generosity was enormous. Largest of all, however, was the role she played in our lives and the place she occupies, even still, in our hearts. She grew up on a fruit farm coaxed from the sandy soil near Alpena, Michigan. In her youth, and on that farm, there was a lot of work but very little wealth. The eldest child in a large family, her childhood ended too soon; growing up through the Great Depression and a world war, her childhood was marked by hardship. You might expect that a human heart planted and nurtured under those conditions would emerge as hard as the soil of sun-baked August fields, but in this case youd be wrong. In this case the fruit harvested from the Cripps Berry Farm was a will as strong as forged steel in the service of being soft, of being warm, of being gentle. What emerged was a woman as tender as a kiss, as sweet as the fruit she picked and as constant as the waves of nearby Lake Huron. I suspect my mother was mostly a product of her mother. Never did I hear her speak to or about her mother, Lillian, with anything less than the highest possible regard. Her respect for, her devotion to, and her love of her mother remained, throughout her life, a large part of who she was. In fact, love and love in a great many flavors seemed to be the genesis of my mothers life force.

Her love of her mother and her brothers and sisters both touched me and impressed me. Her love of her husband surpassed, I think, the epic loves we read about in poetry, novels and myths. That love, by the way, was initiated by her love for the man who would become her father-inlaw, Roy King. She often told me that she gave Dad a chance only because she so admired his father and she thought the son might turn out as well. Her theory, it turned out, held true. Her love of the Earth was overwhelming. She may have left the farm to follow Dad into the ministry, but the farm never left her. Wherever she was and whatever else was going on in her life, Mom was growing things. Many things. Amazing things. Beautiful things. From tiny flowers to towering trees, Mom was always planting, always nurturing always tending to some life that needed her. Four things in particular needed and received her nurturing my brothers, my sister and me. And, yes, her love of her children was another driving force of affection in her life. Even Bonnie Rae, our baby sister we lost on the very day she was born, was a daily object of Mothers love. Mom never forgot, never stopped caring for, that to which she gave life, regardless of how brief that life may be or what course that life may take. And, of course, Moms life was driven by the passionate love affair she carried on with God. The two of them, Mom and God, seemed always to be on the best of terms, in constant contact and sharing an exceptional love. I think there were only two moments when Mom was angry with God when she lost Bonnie and again when she lost Dad but there never was a moment when the love shut off, never a time when the communing stopped, never a night when her faith was in peril.

Faith is really a funny word to use when it comes to Moms relationship with God. Most of us think of that word as meaning a belief in something that is hard to believe in, but this was, for Mom, as far from the truth as it can be. Moms experience of God was as direct, as continuous, as real and as vital as the air she breathed. It was never hard for Mom to believe in God or in Gods love, because she lived in it in every moment. One of my earliest memories is of standing on the couch behind her and brushing her hair. She wasnt in need of grooming. In fact, the grooming wasnt even for her. It was for me. She was the embodiment of beauty to me, but the feel of the silky strands in my hand and the glint of the light playing across the sheen of her hair convinced me I was brushing the hair of an angel. That angel flies through my childhood memories, spreading the bright light and crisp, clean air of an Easter Sunday morning across the landscape of my mind. I used to wonder why whenever I recalled my youth, I saw it as Easter Sunday sun so dazzling and colors so vivid that you had to squint, but you couldnt look away. The lilies, the daffodils, and our Sunday best all blend to create a mythical scene that is as real to me as today is. And its not just any sunny Sunday in spring no, it is Easter: the day we bow our heads in reverence to the renewal of life. Mom was all about renewal of life, in ways both large and small. Her green thumb was legendary, and she often created her gardens of trees and flowers by exchanging cuttings and roots with others. Of all her gardens, I think I liked her rose garden best of all. The summer days I sat on the back porch, surrounded by their vibrant colors and soft, sweet scents seem now like a meditative moment of touching heaven. But it was her ability to take what had been discarded and give it new life and new worth, with just a little bit of her love, that set her

apart. We teased her about it mercilessly, but Mom had an uncanny ability to find things in garage sales, bring them home for cleaning and restoration, and then sell them for a little more at her own sale. But we stood in awe when she gave new life to antique dolls, some of which she sold, most of which she gave as gifts. And we were astounded when she was able to restore and give new life to marriage vows that had been broken. Over and over, Mom demonstrated for us that new life can be revived with love. Very often, that love was expressed through an unmatched generosity. Mom gave to others when she had nothing herself. Again, she brings to mind the book of Luke. This time, its when Jesus is grown: As he looked up, Jesus saw the rich putting their gifts into the temple treasury. He also saw a poor widow put in two very small copper coins. "I tell you the truth," he said, "this poor widow has put in more than all the others. All these people gave their gifts out of their wealth; but she out of her poverty put in all she had to live on." A ministers pay is meager, so we were never wealthy, but that never stopped Mom from giving. I can remember how she scraped together what few dollars she had to make certain that we, her children, would have gifts to enjoy on birthdays and at Christmas. I cannot, however, even begin to count the number of homemade cookies, cakes and crafts she gave away to lift the spirits of others. I remember her new clothes came from garage sales and what we called the missionary box. I cannot recall her ever spending on herself, nor can I recall her complaining about her lot in life. But I am most proud of my memory of the homeless men she fed from our back porch. Weve progressed, as a culture, in that weve come to recognize the pain of poverty and homelessness. Back then, we romanticized it. We called them hobos, free spirits who

simply roamed at will. We even dressed up like them at Halloween. But Mom knew better, and the hobos knew Mom. They knew the pretty preachers wife would give them nourishment in their time of need and renew their strength. In fact, everyone seemed to know Mom, because -- for her -- there were no strangers. Dad, who had such a gift of his own, often remarked in admiration of Moms ability to connect with people she had just met. Dad also appreciated how open and welcoming she made our home, especially to those in need of a friend, and he smiled at her uncanny ability at match-making. Although Dad was blessed to live with this guardian angel caring for him, it was he who got the nickname, at least in private. Mom confided to me that her love for Dad was so strong that when they were young she gave him the pet name of Angel -- how fitting for a young minister and his wife! Dads ministry, of course, took Mom away from Alpena, her childhood home and her family. I know the separation was hard, and she had to content herself with a visit or two each year of which she made every moment count. The way she and her brothers and sisters loved each other, youd have thought they were never apart. Dads ministry was also Moms ministry. The pastors wife has a role that few can appreciate and even fewer can play: part teacher, part secretary, part social worker, and part mother to dozens of families. Sunday dinner was a central part of it all. It was like Thanksgiving dinner every weekend, with the best dishes, cloth napkins, candles lit in the center of the table. And almost every Sunday brought a new special guest: young pastors in training, traveling evangelists, scholars, guest preachers, missionaries visiting from far off places,

gospel singers and even, as I recall, a Catholic nun broke bread with this Protestant preachers family. Memories of those Sundays are among the richest and warmest of my childhood. Not every day was as nice as that, of course, and as the years wore on they took their toll on Mom. She lived in the constant pain of arthritis, despite several major surgeries to give her relief. Her gait slowed, and she walked with a limp, but she never quit moving forward. Not all of her pain was physical. Each of us in the family took our turn at breaking her heart; each of us took our turn at learning from her what forgiveness means. Losing a baby left a scar that never faded, and losing Dad felt, she told me, as if a real king had left his throne, but the year that her first-born, Gary, lost his leg was her greatest crisis, her heaviest burden. She told me that watching him suffer caused her to age quickly. Of course it did: For her, nothing would hurt more than seeing one of her family endure that unimaginable pain and loss. Press on, she advised me, and wait for Gods plan to be revealed. The story the family story the things she treasured and pondered in her heart would have a happy ending. She just knew it, and I suspect that her knowing had something to do with that special connection she enjoyed with God. For whatever reason, she never gave up: not on God; not on us; not on her journey of life; not on her mission of love. I have to tell you that none of this not the church work, not her gardening, not her entrepreneurial endeavors, not even the pains of life none of this ever distracted her from being our mom. Most days, we were included in whatever she was doing, and almost every night we were sent to bed with hugs, kisses and reminders to say our prayers.

This family she created was her joy and her reason in life. I never made the news but once, she said to me in her later years, but I always enjoyed life because I had all of you to celebrate life with! As she said it, I caught a mischievous twinkle in her eye, as if she was letting me in on a secret, as if she had pulled a fast one on fate. Indeed, she had. She had kept her priorities, she had avoided being sucked into the distractions of lesser things that occupy so many of us. Im sure youve seen the bumper sticker that says He who dies with the most toys wins! Moms would have said He who dies with the most toys didnt understand the game. Our care, she told me, was the highest calling she could ever have on Earth, and she dedicated her life to two main goals: preparing us for this life and the next. She wanted us to know that what others saw as her sacrifices were not sacrifices at all, but blessings. Mom understood. Mom won. Now I know why all my Sundays are Easter Sunday. Its because of Mom. Mom was all about the giving and renewing of life. She brought us into the world, fed us, nurtured us, made us strong enough to carry the life forward. In time, she took our children -her grandchildren and great grandchildren close to her own heart. After Dad passed away, Mom worked to keep him alive in our hearts, to keep the family bond strong enough to sustain us all. She was, in fact, keeping the family story going. The next chapter was unfolding, and Mom was there to guide us through the pages. Mom often told me that she simply didnt have time in her life for sadness or regret, but today I feel regret. I regret that so many miles separated the two of us during the last years of her life. I yearned to have her worship with me in church, to sit on the couch

in front of the fire and talk with me of days gone by, to help her grandchildren grow. I yearned to pick fresh strawberries for her, knowing how much she enjoyed them. I yearned to brush her hair. But the circumstances of life kept us apart, and those years without her will haunt me. This moment has long terrified me. Mom and I talked about it more than once. She was completely at peace with it. She knew she had lived life as it should be. She knew where her destiny was. She knew she would be rejoined with Dad, her mother, her sister, her baby, her Lord. She told me it was OK, that she knew I was strong enough to carry on, to carry forward the gifts she had given me. She knew that one day Id be rejoining her, too. As with everything she grew, she made us strong. She was proud of what my brothers and sister and I have done with our lives. She was especially proud of the care we have given the families we created. But as strong as she made me, and as much as I have prepared for this day, I am no match for it. We talked about it, I meditated on it, I prayed over it I even prepared these words for it, and shared them with her, long before they were needed but all the preparation has failed me. Today I am not strong. Today, I need a new Easter. Today, I need my mommy to catch me one more time. Mom knew who she was and she was at peace with her life. She neither pretended to be anything she wasnt nor apologized for who she was. Thats pride in the good way. Thats not the pride that precedes a fall. Thats the pride that carries you through life centered, assured and strong. Strength was one of Moms defining traits, but it was an uncommon strength all her own. She knew, she taught, she lived by the truth that only the weak cant be loving, only the weak cant be giving, only the weak cant be true.

So, she came into the world as Mellidean, but she leaves the world as Mother. Mommy. Mama. Ma. Mom. If there is a sweeter, more delicate or more powerful word, I dont know what it is. Mother. It is a sacred word. It is a word that fills our minds with memories and sets our hearts afire with emotion. It is a word that both stops us in our tracks and drives us to reach beyond the mere selves we are now. Mother. It is a word that whispers off the lips with the feeling of a poem, a promise, a prayer.