The Recipe is The Same...Almost

As an awkward child and even more awkward teenager, I always looked up to my mom. Full of grace and beauty, I wondered how she could have made me. I was lanky with crazy hair, and full of sarcasm. She was gorgeous with shiny hair, and always graceful with her words and actions. In those moments of lament, my mother told me I was more like her than I knew. We were made from the same recipe. I hopefully agreed, but always thought I was a bit more salty.

I watched my mom be a wife to my dad. She treated my dad with love and respect in every dealing. She didn't let up on a bad day, or let her guard down when she was ill. She realized the eternal nature of their love, and treated it with the deference it deserved. I think of my own marriage, and how I often let selfishness get in the way of our eternal happiness. I vow to be more like my mom, remembering I have it in me. My marriage recipe is just a bit saltier.

I watched mom be a mother to all my siblings, and many others. Her kindness, compassion, wisdom and nurturing far surpassed anything I possessed. I never had good advice, but could offer a snarky joke at a moments notice. I would ask my mom how she did it, and she would smile and tell me it was easy as her kids were perfect. I knew this wasn't true, I just knew her love for us was perfect. I wondered how I could be so unselfish and loving to my kids. Then I remembered we were made from same recipe, just add salt to my batch.

When my Dad passed, I ran home to Mom. I just needed to know that she was OK. But, really she made sure I was OK. I received a hug and kiss every time we passed in the hall. Back and head rubs after a long day, and she even made me eggs ONLY the way she could (runny center, super salty, cut with a fork by her...it just tastes different when anyone else cuts it).

Now, as I continue my journey of motherhood, I see my mom in the way I love my kids, in the constant cuddles I steal from them. Every time we sit in church and I scratch their back, I remember that only months ago, my mom was doing the same for me. I still can't make eggs right, but nobody's perfect.

At times my need for my mom robs me of breath, and I am stunned with the loss of her. At those moments, I stop, breathe, and remember that she is still here. Just add salt.