What our mothers give us is too complicated to fit on a greeting card.  It’s too essential to fit into a perfunctory holiday one day out of the year.

Your mom is unlike anyone else’s (even your siblings’ experience of the same mom).  And what she gave you has a great deal to do with what you have accepted as a gift.

I asked a few friends to share a glimpse of what they got from their mothers. I’m eager to read your stories in the comment section.

Susan:

I am strong and determined, as was my mother and my mother’s mother. All three of us were the first-born and blessed with considerable energy.  I once stumbled upon my 76-year-old grandmother on scaffolding as she painted the exterior of her house.  My mother worked day and night to paint murals in her grandchild’s bedroom, determined to finish before she drove three hours back to Cleveland late into the night.  I also throw myself into projects with great energy, and I believe that one day I will have something lasting to show for all of the effort as it is in my blood.

Damien:

Brains, toughness, and no tolerance for excuses. She’s a single mom still raising my two younger brothers and a superhero as far as I’m concerned.

Laurie Kincer: 

The assurance that, whatever the issue, there was always one person on my side

Her drug problems and lockup blistered what time I might have had with her.  Now I see the fire she was putting out all the while. She kept me from burning in it by leaving me with her sister. Her gifts to me are staying clean seven years now and being one hell of a fun 53-year-old grandma to my kids.

Ginny Douglas:

My Mom turns 96 in a couple of weeks. Here’s something of what I’ve learned from her – so far.

Trust God. Things will get better, or they won’t. Either way, trust God.

Tithe; in other words, give away 10% of your income to church and/or charities.

 The way to get through today, is to do what worked yesterday. Get up, get dressed, say a prayer, eat breakfast; assume you can do what you did yesterday unless there is overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

Of course, she also passed along her excessive fear of thunderstorms and tornadoes. But even at that, all of the above still applies.

Now with her failing memory and frustrating limitations, Mom is showing me how to age with grace.  I’m grateful we still have her with us.

A love of talking: to her babies, to her children, to every stranger in the grocery store. My New England husband is just amazed at this in me. (Not in a good way, when we are in Maine.)

A love of her family’s stories and songs: her grandparents’, her parents’, her children’s and grandchildren’s. Welsh folk sayings, train engineer tunes and lullabies. I know them all.

A love of preparing a simple meal with great joy. Her last journal records making macaroni and cheese and setting out flowers to go with it. Me too. We sit down together for every meal.

A love of taking in the stranger. She didn’t love to travel so much, but every missionary visiting our church and many foreign doctors at the hospital ended up at our table. She was raised in a neighborhood of immigrants– mostly Eastern European– and from the age of 10, helped them learn English and study for the citizenship test, then remembered all their stories and songs and passed those and the love of immigrants on to me. She would be so sad at the immigrant conversation plaguing our country just now. It makes me want to weep.

She hated injustice, prejudice, and the Republican party (though many of her friends were Republican). She loved, loved, loved unions, social organizations, and the Democratic party. I have to say, she handed all those down to me, too. And she got them all from her mother, who was once challenged by a son-in-law, “Mom, if Jesus Christ were running as a Republican, you’d still vote Democrat,” to which she replied, “Why would Jesus change parties now?”

An appreciation of home gardening and the joy it  brings into our lives. From early spring blooms to the changing beauty of the flowers and vines we plant in the spring and appreciate all summer –  I share this love of life-giving planting and tending. It’s one of life’s little pleasures to walk slowly and look at what’s growing with my Mom.

A passion for reading. She read aloud to us in the strangest places when we were little, like on the bus and while we were taking baths. Her favorite books always leaned towards horror like Christopher Pike and Stephen King. She didn’t know I had so many bad dreams because I’d stay up late reading her books after she’d finished them.

Love of family.  She would do anything for her children or her grandchildren.  Anything. Every sacrifice was worth it to her.  I can remember something as silly as maybe something we had for dinner.  My dad would get the choice piece, then it was split up between us kids.  IF there was anything left she got it and if we said anything, she’d say she wasn’t all that hungry.  I feel like I do the same thing.  And the funny thing I learned is that it doesn’t feel like a sacrifice at all.  It just “is.”

Hard work and doing a job to the best of your ability.  My mom didn’t believe in doing a job halfway.  You put your heart and soul into it. When you were done, you could be proud of it, even if no one else noticed.  I may not do some things as good as professionals, but I’ve learned to do my very best, even in the little things.

And my mom taught me never, ever, EVER to use her good fabric scissors on anything but fabric!  If I did, I somehow ruined the scissors for eternity and I also learned that I would hear about it that long as well.

My mom sang in clubs when I was growing up.  In the mornings she was tired and her hair smelled like cigarette smoke. After a long night of singing covers she sang whatever she liked at home, mostly traditional Mexican songs and her own music. She made sure I took lessons and stayed in school music programs. She used to say she’d be singing till her last day. That turned out to be true. Every time I think of her, I hear her singing in my mind.

I knew that my mother cared about my perspective even if she disagreed with me, because she always listened. When I attempted comic impersonations of my teachers she laughed. When I disputed her edicts she gave credence to my protests. And when I listened back she often surprised me. Yes, she gave me her straight hair, weak knees, and fear of heights. She also gave my voice a reason to exist.