Specks

Mom burnt everything. Cookbooks lined our kitchen crevices, but mom burnt everything. We’d be out, and she’d get that look in her eyes. The oh crap, I left food in there again look. And then she’d admit it. Although, we already knew what she was going to say once she gave us that look.

I don’t know what it was about waiting in line at the Walgreens pharmacy that reminded her of the two-day old roasted potatoes, or her folding dad’s underwear that brought back a memory of those suddenly charred chocolate chip cookies, or why dropping off bags of old clothes at Good Will recalled the now not-so-fresh-caught salmon that we were supposed to eat for dinner.

When we moved onto Sunset, a couple features of the new house took some getting used to. Mom and dad had built our previous house on Clausen, so we knew where essentially everything was and how everything worked. However, on Sunset, we had that dysfunctional lock on the wraparound black fence that always needed careful jimmying, the never before experienced first-floor bedroom, a full kitchen built into the otherwise unfinished basement, and that AGA cast-iron range with a cooktop and four opaque oven doors, all of which remained on and fully heated at all times to make for simpler cooking and baking. It all sounded so simple yet futuristic—no need to preheat the oven, any accidental fires consumed themselves, and the 24/7 continuous electric operation acted as our very own built-in space heater.

Well, we learned together after several failed family dinners that the top right door was the roasting oven at 400*F, bottom right was the baking oven at 350*F, and bottom left was the warming oven at 250*F.

Whenever and wherever we’d be, mom’s eyes would open almost wide enough for an eyeball to roll out, and her feet would stop abruptly. No matter what was baking in there, and after the initial shock of her realizing the mistake she’d made again, she’d fold her little body halfway over while grabbing her left shoulder in an attempt to contain the inevitable snorts she often let out with her uncontrollable laughter.

Mom laughed at herself endlessly. Life is too naturally serious for us to take it so seriously. She made sure sarcasm was instilled in our brains like the ABC’s and that our senses of harmless humor grew simultaneously with our every inch.

***

Mom was a healthy eater. She told me once that she never allowed herself to sit down with food during football games because she knew she’d never stop eating out of pure oblivious anxiousness. That’s the self-control that got passed onto Michael but definitely missed Hannah, Gracie, Will, and I during her five pregnancies.

She tried to drink at least eight glasses of water a day and eat a salad for at least one of her daily meals.

She drank scalding hot black coffee every morning and would often politely ask the baristas (whom she’d come to know pretty well) if they could make her joe extra hot and double cup it so it wouldn’t burn her dainty fingers in the same way that she liked it burning her taste buds. While waiting for the extra hot black coffee, she’d joke around with the men and women behind the counter, starting their days off on a bright note despite the sun rarely ever having risen yet.

Mom got up at 5:30 a.m. most mornings. It was so early that she often woke the birds up after they’d hear her softly going about her morning tasks. She lived full days before the rest of her noisy house rolled out of the beds that she’d neatly made for them each day prior.

While mom ate healthily, she was also fully aware and welcoming to the occasional sprinkle twist donut, Coca-Cola, McDonald’s fries, and other treats that the other six of us thoughtlessly and regularly consumed.

While I only remember a handful of times when mom indulged herself in a small order of McDonald’s fries, it always went exactly the same way.

“Hi. Welcome to McDonald’s. Can I take your order?”

“Hi! Yes! What do you guys want?” She’d turn and ask each of us in her big blue minivan, or bigger black Nissan Armada, or biggest grey Infinity QX80. Her cars always fit all seven of us, even before there were seven of us. She always knew she wanted five.

She’d place our orders first.

“Anything else?”

“Yes, can I please have a small fry? And for those fries, I’ll wait for new hot ones.”

Mom knew exactly how she wanted to sip her morning coffee, eat her fresh French fries, and have her family of seven fit together in one car as opposed to two. She was never afraid to politely and patiently demand what she wanted.

***

Last June, after a trip to the mall for summer clothes that I didn’t really need considering COVID-19 kept us in our house all that time, mom asked me what I thought the best advice she’d ever given me was.

I sat silently next to her, intentionally rummaging through my mind which was stocked with twenty full years of mom’s inciteful and intentional behavior and guidance.

“That’s hard. There’s a lot. But… I think my favorite is how you always tell us not to count another person’s blessings or compare them to our own.”

When mom had five kids, with a twelve year age gap between Hannah and little Will, she likely didn’t expect all the aggressive complaints or mentions of how it was constantly unfair whenever one of us got to do something, or eat something, or own something that the others didn’t. Rather than immediately sending us to our rooms for behaving so selfishly, mom would comfortably look into our eyes and remind us that if we constantly compare our lives to someone else’s, something will always seem to be missing, but if we counted our own blessings instead, we could be pretty happy with all the good that we’ve got.

Today, I could be pretty mad that I don’t have a mom. I could be angry that she will never know the man I marry or that she won’t get to help me pick out the perfect wedding dress. I could let any passing mother and daughter duo ruin my day. I could lose my faith in God because I don’t understand why people who hate their mothers still get to keep them and I had to watch mine struggle for fifteen months as her treatments failed all of us. I could push away everyone who has tried to help me through this process because their help isn’t hers and they won’t really know what I’m feeling. I could do all of these things, but I won’t.

Every day since November 19th, I’ve chosen to be thankful that I still have an insanely level-headed dad, the world’s most empathetic older sister, a calm and collected protective older brother, a goofy care-free younger sister, and a little brother whose street smarts often exceed my own. I’m thankful for my friends’ moms and how they’ve taken me in as their own. I am lucky to live in the home mom thoughtfully shaped for us. I get to walk out into the backyard and smell fresh mint which unexpectedly sprouted again in the garden she gently planted last year. I get to look back on photos from all the family vacations she planned. I happily accept that her old notes slipping out of my books, and my using her credit card to grab coffee and the barista calling me by her name unknowingly, and the tree planted in her honor in our front yard on her six-month anniversary are all mom’s way of telling me she’s still here. I’m thankful for the God moments she’s given me then and now, and I’m glad that she got to meet Him first.

***

When mom got sick, she fought with everything inside of her. She would still clap and cheer for Will during his baseball games just hours after she went through intensive treatments. Despite her own sadness and fear, she let me cry about missing her while I was at college as she reminded me that I was exactly where I needed to be. She understood Michael dropping out of school to be home. When Hannah decided to move out, there was never a discussion if this was the best time, mom just told her how proud she was of her. And when Grace wanted to go to see friends during the pandemic, she selflessly let her attend small gatherings and bonfires because she knew that home wasn’t the same happy place that she spent so many years delicately building for us.

Mom apologized for not being her regular funny self on days when the nausea from chemo rested uncomfortably in her throat. She made us meals that she couldn’t eat herself and tried to push off the meal train that local families had organized to ease her load. Mom prayed. She wrote long lists detailing daily moments of gratitude. She cried to me behind the steering wheel proclaiming that needed to live because she wasn’t done being a mom. She switched us to organic produce and more natural household items to avoid us ever going through this. She cut her hair and wore itchy wigs so that we couldn’t visibly recognize everything she’d lost.

Before mom stopped speaking, she whispered to each of us that we were her whole life’s work. She told us she was going to die. She mouthed “I love you” and winked.

Mom showed us an unimaginable strength. I used that strength when I wrote her obituary and spoke her eulogy. Little Will used that strength when he told us that he remembered her saying she wanted to be cremated rather than buried. Dad used her strength when he told me everything was going to be okay for us the very day that she died, and he’s used her strength every day since as he’s fulfilled his promise. Hannah used mom’s strength when she took care of Thanksgiving dinner, Christmas shopping, and sent care packages to us just the way mom would’ve done—expecting nothing in return. Grace used her strength when she planned to go to the local nursery and decorate the porch’s barren planters with flowers like mom always had done before.

The seven of us were not ready to be an even six, but we are figuring out life without her while still living through her memory, faith, love, advice, and strength.

I’ll never forget how she believed watching crappy TV while folding laundry is the only justifiable time to do so, never telling your kids about Santa’s true identity is the right way to maintain Christmas magic, having a few quality staple wardrobe pieces is infinitely better than a closet packed to the brim with cheap fabric. Writing a good letter means more than the gift itself, although both are often important. I remember how she didn’t buy a nice purse until she’d saved for our five college tuitions and how she reminded us that weight didn’t matter as long as we dressed to fit your own body types. She scolded us whenever we used the phrase “no offense” and reminded us to always be kind because we never know what someone else may be going through. We grew up never laying a violent hand on our siblings. Waking up earlier in the morning adds more life and hours to our every day. The most important rule of all was to take care of each other, and she stressed how important it was to say, “I love you.” She taught me to write up a list of attributes I wanted to find in a significant other so that I could understand what my deal breakers are and never settle for anything less. She asked us to go to the doctor if anything ever felt less than normal. She argued that electric toothbrushes were crucial to the best dental hygiene and sunblock was essentially useless under 50 SPF. Selecting an entree at a restaurant is only picking one meal not a last meal, so don't contemplate it too hard. Always be extra gracious to staff members who are working to make your experience more enjoyable. If you're in trouble, seek help from a woman with a child. Go to church in college. When you purchase a new piece of clothing, donate an old one. Don't forget to call your mother.

***

Mom’s last Easter, Hannah and I sat at the kitchen island asking her why Easter happened to be her favorite holiday.

“Life. Renewal. Resurrection. Eternal life. This is a speck of sand.” Mom pinched her fingers together mimicking the tiny nature of that little speck.

To her, that little tiny speck of sand she mentioned was her whole life. At the time, I believed there was more after death. She knew there was.

I felt that her whole life, the life that made mine, was incomparable to the insignificance of a little speck of sand. But mom was always right.

Looking back on this, I understand how insignificant and significant life is simultaneously. It’s short, some are shorter than others, so time can’t be wasted. And then, all of a sudden, a life is gone and missed by those who remember it’s influence on their own, but time no longer exists for that angel in eternity.

I’m going to be learning from my speck of sand, until I’m old or sick or dying and can look back on my own life realizing what I’ve just done here is nothing in comparison to what’s waiting for me soon.

Emotion comes in waves, and I often find my eyes flooded with salty waves larger than those expressed in Genesis, which, I know, have rippled the world into nonexistence once before. The difference is, my tearful waves are so powerful all because of that little inconceivable speck’s 54-year existence.

Mom's life was clearly too perfect to sustain. She was my guardian angel before in her beauty, grace, empathy, faith, and optimism and she's mine now, sheltering me from my own salty floods differently than she could before—calming these waves by coincidental God winks, nighttime dreams of her vivacious presence, and memories of sand in my toes from trips with her.

If we’re all just specks of sand, her speck must’ve been bigger than most.