Do you ever pick up the phone to call your mom because you knew she’d get it? I hope you have a mom who gets it.
I have a mom who got it, but she’s in heaven, so I hope she’s getting it from there.
It happened twice this week. Before work, my daughter, Meg, texted “Jeff played this song on the way to work and I thought about you and all the baby kiddos and it made me want to cry. I love you!” It was a Bill Withers song from the 1970’s called Grandma’s Hands. It made me cry, too.
So, on my way to work, in the privacy of my car, I told the woman who’d get it. “Mom, Meg took the time to send this song to me. You’d be so proud of her. I’m sorry you’re missing out on how amazing she is, but maybe you know. I'm hoping you know.”
I made it to work, and as I emptied my bag of the paperwork I needed to tackle, I pulled out a novel my daughter, Mallory, had just returned to me. I flipped through the pages, and tucked into the crease was a piece of paper. I unfolded it and stared at my own handwriting. “I won’t lie. I miss you. Call me!”
I sent her a photo of the note, “Look what I found in the book!”
She responded “It’s one of the notes you snuck into our stuff when we left for our internship in San Diego. I used it as a bookmark.”
I silently called my mom at that moment to say “Are you seeing this? Mallory is moving this year, and I’m already tearing up whenever I think about it, and seeing this note made me realize I felt the same way two years ago, and I survived it. You’d be so proud of her, Mom. She is so amazing. I know you’d get it - why I feel like this, after all, I left home, too. I'm sorry I made you feel this way.”
Last year, I posted about making bookmarks of all kinds and sizes with my mother when I was young; about the things she loved to use to mark the important parts: grandchild photos, scripture verses, special quotes; and then about finding her bookmarks as my siblings and I took care of her earthly possessions after her death. Finding her bookmarks felt like finding clues to what was important to her, as they fluttered from her books into our laps.
What is tucked between the pages of our lives? How do we mark the important parts?
This week was marked with daughters I love, a reminder of how blessed I am to be their mom, and to have a mom who gets me, even from heaven.
If you have a mom who gets you, give her a call. Or talk to her in the car. If you don’t have a mom who gets you, give me a call. I’ll share mine.
Maybe you’re the one who gets it for somebody else. Maybe you’re the one they call. Maybe yours will be the clues that flutter from their pages of life. Maybe you’re their bookmark. You get it.
Comments