Mother’s Day 2024
The quiet of early mornings will find me sitting in my study overlooking a portion of my backyard, now painted in springtime green. Often I’m accompanied by the faint rumble of traffic, the familiar sound of the washing machine down the hall, and always, a cup of strong coffee with milk by my side.
This time of year, the winter darkness has lifted and I can open the shades as early as 5:30 to let in the faint light and this is what I see:
The heart shaped leaves of the trio of birches dance in the breeze; the Japanese maple sprawls across the slightly leaning white pergola, deep red climbing roses are woven throughout; the green of azaleas, and hydrangeas yet to bloom. The potted dogwood graced with four petals of pale white with a hint of chartreuse; the dwarf Meyer lemon whose waxy green leaves are studded with fragrant star-like blossoms; a profusion of creamy white flowers against the thorny stems and leaves of roses sprawl across the back fence; an unexpected pop of deep purple from the fruitless plum draws my eyes to filtered sunlight.
From this spot I give witness to the changing seasons. Soon, springtime splendor will give way to summer’s heat and the verdant lushness of the trees will bring the shelter of shade. Autumn brings vibrancy of color~reds, purples, oranges, and gold, along with a welcome change in temperature. The undressed branches of winter bear a posture of strength and grace, a vulnerability of sorts with no leaves to hide under.
My life is held in this gentle cup of grace and I am given to gratitude.
I think of my Auntie Lois. She entered a new season in March, celebrating her 100th birthday!
Family and friends gathered together with such joy to see her in full splendor. Her loud and contagious laughter rang out and wrapped us in delight and wonder. And then, sadly, a few weeks later, she took her last breath. Her splendor is hidden now, soon to be buried, but it will never be extinguished or forgotten. And, she will rise again in Christ.
Memories of her flutter like those dancing birch leaves:
Her booming voice and that famous “Downing frown” scaring me as a child.
Family gatherings at her house on Russell Street in Redding, California, with the huge and graceful willow and fig trees dotting the backyard.
Shopping with her and my mama in San Francisco for fabric for my wedding dress.
The blue and white polka dotted dress she wore to our wedding, changing into white Keds for the dancing. (And she and my mama encouraging me to dance on the pool table!)
Sitting with her at her kitchen table when she became a widow much too early.
Traveling together with her and my mama to places we grew to love, leaving an echo of raucous laughter. (This is where I heard stories of their growing up in Montana and the bittersweetness of sisters).
Sitting at her kitchen table once again, this time as my mama, her baby sister, slipped between the dimensions of lucidity and forgetfulness.
Her consolation when mama died and stepping in to bolster me as we both crumpled.
And, not so long ago, a phone call, which was always tricky with her loss of hearing. Her voice booming once again, “Pammi, it’s me, Auntie Lois. Do you have that recipe for Apple Salad your mom used to make?”
I am forever grateful for the gift of my Auntie Lois. She was able to spend her last days at home with the support of hospice and her family. While she was always fearful when I traveled to Africa, she was also proud of the work being done there, mercy and compassionate care to people in all seasons of life.
Always Mercy,
Pamela
