I was going through some boxes in my house last week. Even though my folks have been gone for 10 years, I still have things that I’m hanging onto from their home — pieces of my childhood.
After my father died, I began to go through all of the boxes and boxes that my mother had stored in our basement. What I found touched me so deeply — even back then before I knew the truth about my childhood. My mother had packed up my childhood into boxes, one or more dedicated to every year of my life. Inside these boxes were treasure trove of happy memories: poems and art, little girl notes and dresses, favorite toys, birthday and Christmas cards, pictures and ribbons from my hair.
My mother left little notes on all of these memories that she packed away so carefully. “You wore this to church on your first Easter Sunday. You were such a good little girl you didn’t cry once during your first full church service.” “This picture was taken the day I brought you home from the hospital — the best day of my life.” “This Popsicle stick is from your fifth birthday party with Anne, Liza and Becky.” Pinned to my christening dress, was a little yellow note: “I gave you back to God the day you wore this dress. You were so good.” Every note was signed the same way: “Never Forget — you are my Precious One, Mommy.”
There were over 50 boxes in our basement, crammed to overflowing. I spent a lot of hours in that basement sorting through my memories. And I went through a lot of Kleenex. At the time I didn’t fully understand. I hadn’t reclaimed my memories so I just thought Mommy was being her historian self. She loved all things have to do with genealogy or history.
I realize now that my mother had a purpose behind all those little notes. It was her way of reminding me of the good times. Her way of showing me that even in the midst of the horror her love was always there for me.
As I reread some of those notes last week, it came to me that my mother taught me a valuable lesson in the midst of all those precious gifts. She taught me that life is as we see it, or remember it.
I can choose to remember, and focus on, the horror. I can choose to remain in that indignant angry space.
Or I can choose to remember that I was and am my Mother’s Precious One, the light in her heart, the sunshine of her days. I can remember the great times we had together, the special bond that brought us so close. It’s my choice.
I am choosing to remember that I was and am loved beyond all measure. In that precious love my heart is healing.
Photo Credit
“Swaying in the Wind” mio-spr @ Flickr.com. Creative Commons. Some Rights Reserved.
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