A Tribute to Mothers Day- Part II
~**~**~**~ 

My Mother's Shawl 

by Jaye Lewis

It's been over twenty years, yet I can still see the sparkle in her robin's egg blue eyes.  I can hear her musical laugh, low and throaty.  She didn't have much to celebrate in her life.  Forced by a series of events into an early marriage and motherhood, she was a woman who lived her life clinging to her faith.

She was the keeper of our family history.  Long before the days of high-speed internet and "Google" searches, my mother could rattle off obscure names, dates, and events in the lives of her ancestors, with an accuracy that would make a historian blush.  A storyteller who never understood the power that her words could convey, my mother could "take you there" and make you cry.

She didn't have much in life, so she left little behind.  Thankfully I have my mother's shawl.  The shawl was crocheted from bits of yarn that my mother saved from every crocheting project she had ever begun.  She would save those bits of thread, and when she had enough leftover she would make "something useful."   The shawl was a ghastly shade of pink, with bits of every clashing color imaginable.  It belongs to me, now, and when life seems weary, I often cling to it and remember. 

My mother and I had a stormy relationship.  Some years after one of our long periods of "not speaking," my mother and I had finally begun to forgive each other.  She had softened, and so had I.  At the end of our last phone conversation she told me that she loved me.  "I love you, too, Mom," I said, as my voice broke.   I'll never forget that exchange.

Four days later she died.  I was devastated.  I flew from Texas to Florida.  It was a closed coffin funeral.  My mother was buried in a felt covered pine box.  A woman of simple tastes it would have suited her.  Though my heart ached over the wasted years, I could not cry.  Returning to the house after the funeral, I had little to say.  I walked into my parent's home, and I made my way into my mother's bedroom. There on the dresser lay her shawl, the ugly, pink monstrosity, made from left-over bits of yarn.  I picked it up and buried my face in it.  My mother's light, sweet fragrance was all over it.  Bittersweet memories flooded my soul.   I remembered my mother's smile as she crocheted that shawl.  "You'll see, I'll make something useful," she had assured me. 

She had made the ugly shawl to warm her aching shoulders, as she crocheted so many wonderful things.  I drank in the memories of my mother as I pressed her shawl to my face, and finally I wept.  I asked my Dad if I could have the shawl.  It was the only thing that I requested, and it was all that I wanted to remind me of her.  Sadly, the years have reduced her scent to oblivion.

Now, as I grow old I often pull out her shawl to warm my aching shoulders.  I see her face, each time I look in the mirror.  I hear her voice when I laugh.  I feel her heartbeat every time I pray to the God she served, in spite of all that life dealt to her.  I have to smile each time I realize just how eccentric my mother was, and how much like her I am today.  It was so like her to save bits of yarn so that she could make something useful.  Perhaps she has also made something useful of me.

Jaye Lewis

Jaye Lewis is a an award winning writer and contributing author of recently released Chicken Soup for the Recovering Soul and Chicken Soup for Every Mom's Soul.  Jaye lives with her husband and daughters in the beautiful Appalachian Mountains of Virginia.  This is Jaye's twenty-first Mother's day without her mother, Margaret.  She still misses her.  You may visit Jaye's website at www.entertainingangels.org and see a picture of her mother at age seventeen.  Email Jaye at jlewis@smyth.net

 ~**~**~  

To all of you who are a mother or have a mother

Jodi Flesberg Lilly

May this special day be filled with memories and moments that warm your heart. Whether your offspring or mother is near to you or a long distance away, like my mother and I, the unique bond between mother and child defies time and space.

I had a very odd relationship with my mother growing up. From the time I was very young I felt it was up to me to make sure nothing happened that upset her and was asked to take care of things I was too young to do because she simply couldn't do it all. She was only 22 when I was born and in a little more than three years had three more babies, all boys. She is a sensitive soul, easily hurt and prone to lash out in emotional outbursts when overwhelmed, which was pretty much a constant for her when we were young.

She was the bookish daughter in a family of artsy-craftsy women. Her mother was a professional seamstress, enjoyed entertaining and was socially active in her church and community. Although my mother's personality and talents were the polar opposite she was expected to participate in all of these activities as well. It didn't matter that she had no interest nor that she had little talent for working with her hands and was happiest off by herself reading a book.

She excelled in college but since that was expected her parents took no real notice of her accomplishments. She married my father two weeks after her college graduation and was off to a whole new life. Less than a year later I was born.

My mother was a fish out of water from the start and it has taken her most of her life to finally find her own rhythm and way of living that works for her. It took me many years to understand and literally find it in my heart to forgive her for the things she did that hurt me. I was more like her mother in so many ways. My mother would lock herself away in her bedroom to read and escape from the noise and confusion of our crowded little house and our boisterous, often bickering family.

Today I do the same thing. I lock myself away in my bedroom to read or write. I close out all the noise of the world, the phone calls in the other room, the television, and music that I'm not in the mood to hear. I see that I am more like my mother than I'd ever have wanted to admit when I was younger.

Today my mother and I are friends. We share so many interests and have come to respect each other as people. My mother was the person who sparked my interest in astrology. She bought astrology magazines and loved to learn about different personality types. She has a secondary degree in psychology so human nature has always been a topic of discussion for us.

My mother and I share an interest in metaphysics and spirituality. We have encouraged each other's growth and evolution over the years. She loves the work I do and couldn't be prouder of the person I am. We have both come to understand how precious it is that we have so much common ground as people, beyond the mother-daughter bond, and are able to enjoy each other's company now while we are both vital and alive.

I had the loveliest conversation with her this morning. She's as happy today as I've ever heard her. I called her Pollyanna, rather disdainfully, when I was younger. She could find something good about the most distressing situation and I thought she was just feeble minded to do that. At the time it was her knee jerk reaction to her own unhappiness. Today she is still busy looking for things to appreciate, but now she is truly counting her blessings. This is another of her traits I have aspired to in my life.

Happy Mother's Day, everyone!

Jodi Flesberg Lilly

lightinmotion @yahoo.com

Jodi Flesberg Lilly is a writer and intuitive astrologer living in San Ramon, CA.  She founded and leads the Creative Writers Network at www.Ryze.com (an online business networking site), as well as offering intuitive astrology readings, leading workshops, and teaching classes in spiritual and personal awareness.  To subscribe to her monthly Light In Motion, intuitive astrology newsletter please send an email to info@lightinmotion.net and write ???subscribe??? in the subject line.

lightinmotion@yahoo.com

 ~**~**~  

Mothers

Bill Walker

wildbill6807 @yahoo.com

Mother, what can one say about mothers?  Well there are many words, a book could be written about anyone??™s mother and there still would be pages to write. I think the most important line would be ???without my mother, where would I be????  I notice most men fame always somewhere say something about their mother. If they do not, as a rule they are the rotten apples of the world, like that fellow Hitler. Mother they will say, is the one who made me what I am. If married they may put in a few words about the wife, but mother is/was the one who molded and shaped them. Some young lady may have came along and thought, ???my what a wonderful man, his mother did a good job on him, think I will polish him.??? Some mothers think for a bit she is stealing my boy.  I am sure that may go the other way, when a mother sees her daughter chose to get married.

Mothers are special in so many ways. Mothers will fight the devil for their children. Now that fits both human mothers and the animal world also. A mother Lion will fight to the death for her little ones. I remember a man who thought he was going to pet a little black cub bear, mother bear had other thoughts, he ran for his life with mama hot on the war path. You just don't mess with mama and her children. That mama bear dropped the picnic basket and came on a full head of steam.

I have heard it said, the last thought of a person is of their mother. I haven't got that far yet, but it may well be. If one thinks a bit, mother is what got them into this world, why wouldn't she be the one to welcome them through Heaven's Gate. For those of you whose mothers have not passed on. I guess they will be met by an Angel, but still the thoughts were of Dear Mother.

About Me:

Well I??™m a story teller, not a writer. Never learned the art of fancy English. I

happen to live in Nebraska, but I??™m still Missouri. Never married, all the Dollies I

ever took a second look at was too smart.  Now at 74, just turned that other day, I

figure they all home safe. I love Doggies and Dollies in that order. Lost my two

true friends this year, that be Tinker and Poo. So I found me a new one. This

time a little girlie Peke. She is a normal female. Got a mouth, talks all the time.

She will never be a great writers of stories like Tinker and Poo. They have

about 50 stories on HWS. And now writing  back from Rainbow Bridge.

I just try to write about people, places and things best I remember. Have something

over 250 stories on HWS. under three names.   

 ~**~**~  

MAKE BELIEVE MOMMIES

By: Kathy Whirity

"I'm going to be a mommy when I grow up", said one little girl dressed up in high heels and trying not to trip on the long dress flowing at her feet.  "Me too", says her younger sister as she stirs the pretend pot of soup they'll be sharing with friends.  They take turns rocking the baby doll that lies ever so peaceful in the wooden toy cradle.

Tea time brings out every imaginable wee visitor that takes up space in their room.  From Barbie dolls to Winnie The Pooh, and a couple of teddy bears and stuffed bunnies thrown in for good measure, all are most welcomed guests.

Their lipstick smudged faces peek out from underneath wide brimmed hats as these women in training imitate life as they see it played out before their eyes.

In their make believe world of playing mommy and hosting tea parties there is no reality of bills to pay or jobs to work at to dampen the spirit of love and gaiety that makes up their playtime fun.

Many years separate the dress up days of our little girls  from our own long ago fantasies of youth.  Nowadays we live in the real world of motherhood.  With hungry mouths to feed and diapers to change the many challenges we face each day don't leave us much time to relish these truly special moments in our lives.

But, at night, as our little angels lie fast asleep in their beds, we pause to kiss the sweet cheeks of innocent daughters who, unknowingly, teach us such simple lessons of the heart.  Wishful little ladies who find glamor in mom's wardrobe and who believe that life is best when you're a mother.

As we shut out the lights and say good-night we find ourselves surrounded by the peace of realizing that their make believe world is taken from the way they see our reality.

At these times we are reminded of just what a precious gift these children are to our lives.

I truly believe that we are only as good as the memories we instill in the hearts of our children - and sometimes they begin with make believe mommies.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY

From my heart to yours~

May the precious gift of a child's love,

be the reason you thank the Lord above.

For as long as love and memories unfold~

a mother's heart shall never grow old.

Kathy Whirity

Kathywhirity @yahoo.com

Bio

Kathy Whirity lives in Chicago where she shares her life and love with her husband of 29 years, Bill, their two daughters, Jaime and Katie, and two rambunctious retrievers, Holly and Hannah.

Kathy is a family life columnist for two area newspapers.

To see more of Kathy's writings please visit her web page~ 

http://www.heartwarmers4u.com/members?kathyw