Today Would Have Been my Mother's Birthday

On April 2, 1950 Nancy was born.  She was a pale, lightly freckled blond with a penchant for mischief.  Four years ago we learned she had cancer.  She died 3 months later on my beloved step-dad's birthday just six months after he died suddenly and without warning.  She was young, beautiful, even sexy.
My sister and my aunt are very sad today.  They wanted to do something, get together, reminisce.  But I can't.  Because they are sad and I am not.  Sure, Dec. 20th, the anniversary of the day she died while I slept on the floor at the end of her bed makes me sad because I lost her.  Mother's Day makes me sad because I no longer have one and my dad doesn't notice the new tablecloth or come over just to decorate my little girl's room.  Then there are moments of pain in my life when I am no longer a woman but a little girl badly in need of her mom. 
But today is the day God saw fit to share her with the world 58 years ago.  I am happy to have known her and I have smiled at the thought of her more than once this morning.  If I'm sad about anything it's that my stupid scanner isn't minding right now so I can't share pictures of her.  That really pisses me off because even when I was a kid I wanted the whole world to see how beautiful my mother was.
One of my fondest memories was walking along the beach with her on Okoloosa Island in Florida.  These young guys, college age I am presuming, walked toward us to their destination on the beach.  They checked us out which was no big deal.  What was a big deal was that they took a second looong gaze not at me, but at Mother.  She was a blond knock out.  She was 51.  I was not insulted that they didn't look at me, rather proud that they thought my mom was hot.  Poor Mother was always backward and shy about her looks but she still managed to let a giggle escape.
When we learned she was stage 4 with colon cancer I drove to Florida to take care of her.  It was a frustrating time.  Mother was also, please forgive me, a little crazy.  I laugh as I say that because it's true and I hope I haven't offended anyone to say that about my mom.  I love her still but she drove us all nuts sometimes.  So much so that once my step-dad called me, exasperated.  He told me he loved her so much.  But he didn't know how much more of her he could handle.  He didn't want to leave her.  Did I have any advice? Please understand that my step-dad Jerry had to be absolutely at his wit's end to ever, ever make that call.  Once while he was visiting his kids in Georgia my mother  went shopping and bought a new house without telling him! Poor guy.  My only words to him were caked with heavy laughter as I replied,  "She's yours now, Jerry.  I'm not taking her back!"
But I would.
Anyway, as I was saying, I drove to Florida to take care of her.  As frustrating as it could be, dealing with,  "There's dust over there..."  You know, 12 feet down the hall and around the corner, couldn't I see it?  It was the best time of my life.  My fondest memories with my mom are those weeks I stayed with her, choosing to miss my little girl's eighth birthday because I knew she would have more, Mother would not.
One night in particular I was fighting exhaustion.  Taking care of a cancer patient is no easy task.  On this particular night Mother wouldn't go to sleep.  As she sat on the couch I asked her why she wouldn't go to bed.  "Because I'm afraid." 
"What are you afraid of?" I asked this because Mother had a hard time sleeping in the same house where she discovered my step-dad's body just months before.  I was also still coming to terms with her illness so her next words took me off guard.
"I'm afraid I'll die."
Rarely am I speechless.  But there I sat, on the floor next to her on the sofa unable to squeak a single word from my closed throat.  Quietly I rose and walked into the den where my step-dad's last beer bottle still rested on the end table.  Mother refused to get rid of it.  For some reason the t.v. was on, which was a no-no in Mother's house.  If you left a room you did not leave it with lights or t.v.'s on.  This evening on the television Kirk Cameron was interviewing some guy about a book he had written.  All I heard this guy ask was,  "What's the one thing you can't do in heaven?"
I thought a moment, had nothing and searched for the remote to turn him off.  Before I could do so, however he answered his own question.
"You can't witness to those you love."
I don't remember another word that passed between the two men on the t.v. screen.  Blaring in my ears was the thought of never being able to share Jesus with another person I loved.
I loved my mother.
Turning back to the living room I sat on the floor beside Mother and took her hands in mine.  My mother had the most beautiful hands.  My sister cried the hardest at the funeral that she'd never have the chance to hold them again.  As Mother and I held hands I somehow managed to find the courage to ask her,  "Why are you afraid to die?"  I couldn't believe the sound of my own voice or the words that had formed.
Quietly, she replied,  "Because I don't know if I'll go to heaven."
"Would you like that? Would you like to know you'll go to heaven?"
She nodded.
The rest of the story is that I prayed with my mom and she became a Christian that night of October 12, 2003.  And from that day until the day she passed she was a different person.  Still ornery.  But no longer scared.  And I carry with me the most precious memory in the world.
Not long after she died my husband found me standing in our bedroom crying. "I'm just so sad because I'll never see her again."
My husband, this guy with only an eighth grade education did something that took the wisdom of Solomon.  He took me by the shoulders, turned me to face the mirror and whispered,  "She's right there."  As I gazed at the young woman in the mirror I saw a reflection of the woman who raised me.  Who's resemblance caused nurses to step backward and question who was the patient even though they could clearly see who was lying in the hospital bed.  It is the most precious gift my husband ever gave me next to the treasure I had from God in the person of my mom.
I miss you.  And now I cry.