For Her

I don't get to hug her very often, and I'm not good at calling.  For all she's done, I tell her far too infrequently how special she is.

She is not overly demonstrative, dramatic, or affectionate.  Her love is solid and quiet, displayed more in actions and less in words.  Her life has been filled with a husband and seven children whose needs she put above her own.  She gardened and canned and cooked three meals a day.  She sat in my bed and read Laura Ingles Wilder and Bernstein Bears until her eyes fell shut and I shook her awake.  She made us our favorite birthday dinners every year. She cleaned the house and tolerated us as we threw our bags by the door and tracked in mud.

Within her is the softest of hearts tempered by firmness and consistency.  She convincingly chased children to the stairs under the threat of a wooden spoon with no real intention of using it. When I tattled on my brothers for pinning me to the ground, she asked, "Did you deserve it?".  She cried for me as I shook with nerves the mornings of cross country meets. She patiently raised ornery, sensitive, stubborn, and dramatic boys and girls.  She has witnessed our choices and mistakes, but never hovered or condemned.

She did it all so quietly that we hardly noticed. Without buying anything expensive or extravagant, she made us the luckiest of children.  We had the gift of a wonderful mother.

Happy Birthday Mom. I love you.