A Birthday Letter to my Mother

Dear Mother,

Today is your birthday. 56 years ago, you were a brand new baby girl placed in your mother's arms, a gift to your parents from the Lord.

I guess since I have been married, there haven't been many birthdays that I've been able to spend with you. I remember sending you birthday cards and writing notes in them that said "Wish I could be there for your special day." I'd pick up the phone and talk to you a long time. Since I don't talk to you anymore, I feel like I have become more reclusive, like there's a cork stuffed in my mouth and no way to let the words out. They are special words - things that only you would understand, conversations meant just for us, parts of my life that no one else would know about or ask about.

I'm beginning to sense this special mother-daughter relationship between Clara and I. When we look into each other's eyes, there seems to be a connection, a special bond, a promise of a future friendship. I long for her to stay a little baby so I can keep holding her and nursing her.... and I long to see her grown up so we can cook together and talk and laugh.

Daddy took the day off today. He wanted time to think about you and honor you. He has so many regrets. He wants to go to the monument place today and pick out a headstone. It is an awful birthday present. You would hate it. But you understand, I suppose.

I remember many times when our family came home to stay with you for a week or two. We would wake up in our bedroom in the mornings to the sounds of your banging around in the kitchen, making us breakfast. You might be frying sausage (from Schwan's), or bacon, or Amish baked oatmeal, muffins, scrambled eggs, or homemade waffles, french toast, coffee, orange juice... whatever it was from your kitchen, it was always delicious. I would get up before my husband or children and go in and talk with you, cook with you, drink coffee with you, still in our nightgowns. You always wore a robe.

I remember watching you blow dry your hair and style it with a curling iron. Sometimes I'd hang out in the bathroom and we'd talk while you got ready, or you'd do that while I got ready. We could never get enough time for talking.

You always said your house was so quiet after we left and went back to our home. I always cried when we drove away, waving at you until you were out of sight.

I want those days back. I want you back. I want to sit in your living room with you while we watch Clara play and we can talk about her, and Clara can climb into your lap and give you hugs and kisses. She has a way of making it all better.

You used to ask me "What's wrong with your hair?" That made me so mad. You always thought my hair had problems and you weren't afraid to tell me so.

You are so quiet now.

It's not like you.

Thank you Lord, for my mother. Thank you for the peace I have because I know she's with You. Help me to remember her. Keep my memories alive and fresh. Bless my dad and brother - thank you that they have each other. Draw us close together as a family...draw us close to You.
Amen

Happy Birthday, My Friend, My Mother