My Perfect Roses

Last Sunday, my thoughts were just as drab and boring as the world I had been walking through.  I felt trapped as I made my way down the main aisle of the backroom of my workplace.  I was surrounded on all sides by dull, concrete floors, light gray steel beams, and plain brown cardboard boxes.  But then just like in the Wizard of Oz when black and white scenes suddenly blossom into brilliant color, I noticed something crimson red shining just to my left side.  I turned around and gasped as I caught my breath.

“Oh, those are beautiful!”  I sighed as I came to a complete dreamlike stop.  I suddenly forgot why I had been in such a hurry as I focused on the long stem roses that were lying in a blue basket.  The black handle of the square basket was resting across Bernard’s left arm.

“Do you want a rose?” the assistant manager asked me.

“Really,” I smiled.  “I can have one?”

“Of course, you can,” he answered as he offered the basket out to me.  I thanked him profusely and grabbed the stem of a large blooming red rose.  I pulled the luscious flower from the basket and held it up to my face to breath in the delicious scent of the petals.  “Okay,” Bernard said after I had been completely intoxicated with the sweet aroma.  “You have to let me take your picture now.”

That’s when I noticed that Bernard was holding a digital camera in his opposite hand.  I’ve always been very uncomfortable in front of cameras.  So, now, I shook my head.  “No, thanks,” I told him.  “I’ll have to give you the rose back.”  I started to place the beautiful, perfect creation back into the basket.  Refusing the picture was actually a graceful way out for me because I had suddenly realized that the roses actually had a special purpose.  The flowers were for Mommas.  I had completely forgotten through the course of my busy workday that it was Mother’s Day.  I don’t have children of my own and my mother had passed on seven years ago.  So, of course, I don’t really have a reason or a right to celebrate Mother’s Day and, honestly, it is a holiday that makes me really sad.  I sighed wistfully as I placed the rose back into the basket.

“No, it’s okay,” Bernard told me.  “You can have a rose.  Go ahead and keep it…and I won’t force you to have your picture taken either.”

I just shook my head no and slowly began to back away.  I didn’t deserve the flower.  “Thank you, Bernard,” I told him.  “I do appreciate it but I’m not a mother.  I don’t have any children.  These roses should go to mothers today.

Bernard just laughed then and said, “It doesn’t matter.  You can have a rose, too, if it makes you happy.  Come on.  Take one.”  He held the basket out to me again.

I couldn’t stop smiling now as I grabbed hold of the stem of the flower I had just returned and pulled it back out of the basket.  “Thank you,” I told him.

“That’s fine,” Bernard answered.  “Just enjoy it.

And I did.  Holding the rose and running my fingers over the red, feather soft petals made my day a little brighter.  I was really missing my mother and the rose made me think of her.  I thought about the rose bush my mother had planted and carefully nurtured in the corner of our backyard when I was a child.  But then, thinking about my mother who had sacrificed so much for me, I couldn’t help feeling a little guilty.  I wondered if I had taken a rose away from a woman who was much more deserving than I could ever be.  Did I just steal a rose from one of the many gracious women who went through the pain of childbirth and suffered sleepless nights taking care of sick children?

Honestly, I would have loved to have been one of those women.  But certain life situations and health problems such as ovarian cysts and uterine tumors prevented me from feeling worthy of a rose.  But I also had to admit that the flower and Bernard’s kindness, the way he included me in this simple tribute, made me smile and brightened my day.

A week later, Sunday, May 20, 2017, I was back at work and having a rather bad day.  I kept repeating to myself New Age affirmations to help me make it through my work hours.  “A good or bad day is just my perception.”  “I can use my power of positive thinking to make this a better day.”  But nothing seemed to help.  I spent the day struggling with even the most minor tasks.  I just couldn’t seem to adjust to the stress of the day and my frustration was pushing me to the point of tears.

As I struggled to pull myself together that afternoon, I suddenly heard someone calling out to me.  I turned around to see  Charles standing behind me.  “Here, this is for you, Jamie,” he said as he held out his hand to me.  “Take this and hold onto it until your day becomes better.”  I stared down at the small, red rose resting in his palm, and my heart suddenly filled with hope and gratitude.  I was so touched by Charles’s sweet gesture.  “Thank you so much,” I answered.  “That’s so sweet of you.”   I reached out and took the rose from his hand.  As Charles walked away , I pinned the rose to my shirt and immediately began to feel much better.  What an amazing blessing that gift was!  And now, after all of the positive thinking I tried to force on myself, that simple rose made me feel so much better.

I thought now about both roses I had received over the last two Sundays and I realized something.  Though I regret not being a mother, though I am ashamed of myself for not handling my frustration better, people still cared about me.  I don’t have to be anything in particular or do anything special for people to think of me.  I had no reason to feel inadequate or ashamed or lacking in my life.  I don’t have to have a great job or a lot of money.  Instead, all I had to do was be kind and have a good heart and there will always be people to support and help me.

My coworker’s kindnesses reminded me of the love Jesus Christ holds for all of us.  He knows our regrets and our failings and yet He continues to love and support us anyway.  He continues to help us grow strong and beautiful and blossom into special spirits….just like my beautiful perfect roses.  I am so blessed!

Thank you so much, Bernard and Charles, for your kindness…and my roses!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Pennies from Heaven

When my mother was a small child, she always carried coins in her black-and-white saddle shoes for safekeeping.   It became a habit that she continued into her adulthood.  My mother always placed pennies in her shoes before putting them on her feet.  “It brings me good luck,” she would say whenever I questioned her about it.

I never could figure out how Mom’s ritual brought her good fortune, especially when her old shoes had numerous holes.  But my mother truly believed in her superstition and, I guess, there were a few times when it was a true blessing.  When I was a child, I remember watching my mother scrape spare change together from the bottom of her purse to pay for the weekly groceries.  If she was still a few cents short, Mom, standing right there in the check-out line, would step out of her shoes and pick out the coins that she had placed there for providence.  She would hand the coins to the cashier, and then, with her head held high, she would step back into her shoes, gather together her groceries and children and proudly walk out of the store.  Yeah, there were times when those pennies brought her real luck and good fortune.

Though I never put pennies in my shoes, there was another coin tradition Mom taught me that I completely embraced.  Mom believed in “pennies from heaven.”  Every time she randomly found a coin on the ground, Mom would tell me that an angel was watching over her.  Whenever angels are near they leave gifts of coins and feathers.  I have always had a great belief in angels and continually looked for spare change whenever I needed a boost of faith.  I rarely found the reassurance I was looking for.

Well, that was until my mother passed away on March 16 of 2010.  After that day, coins suddenly seemed to appear around me at the most random times and in the most unusual places.  From the very first penny I found after Mom passed, I truly believed it was a sign from heaven that she was still looking out for me.  And whenever I found more valuable coins I felt doubly blessed.  Whenever I find pennies, I always think of Mom and her ritual even though I keep the coins I find in a special glass vase and never in my sneakers.

For some reason, I’m not sure why, I suddenly thought of Mom and the spare change she kept in her shoes while I was at work on Easter Sunday.  I didn’t consciously concentrate on the memory.  It just came and went as a passing thought.

But that afternoon, my right shoes suddenly felt a little funny.  I took a few steps and felt a strange pressure at the bottom of my right toe.  I shook my foot trying to shake away the feeling.  It didn’t help.  Every step I took caused a small achy pressure into my toes.  I tried hard to ignore it.  I was at work and didn’t want to be bothered by something so trivial.  I knew there was something in my shoe but didn’t know what it was.  Finally, when the pressure was too annoying, I took off my right shoe, held it up over my left hand, and shook my sneaker.  To my surprise, a nickel fell out of my shoe and came to rest  in the center of my palm.

I stared at the coin in surprise.  I don’t know how the nickel suddenly got into my shoe that Sunday afternoon.  What an amazing Easter gift.  I whispered a quiet thank you to my mom and my many angels for always looking out for me.  Even though I had to work on this holiday, it was, without a doubt, the best, most blessed Easter I had  ever had.

The Faith of a Child

Sunday afternoon, I decided I needed to be free of all distractions.  Over the last month or two, I had fallen behind in my work.  With my cross-country move, starting my new job, and completing my novel, I had taken time away from writing my blog, my poetry, my journal, and my short stories.  I wanted to get back to writing again on a set schedule so no aspect of my work would suffer.  In order to do that, I needed to leave the house.  Facebook, laundry, cell phone, and TV are just a few of the culprits that can distract me from getting my creative endeavors accomplished.  With this thought in mind, I decided to head up to the local Wendy’s restaurant.  I was determined that I was going to sit in the restaurant for at least two hours, sipping cups of iced tea and writing several pages in my notebook.

About an hour into my work, I was making good progress.  I felt focused and thought I could work through the rest of the afternoon.  I had written two poems and had started scribbling ideas down for a new short story.  For a brief moment, I became stuck on a particular aspect of my narrative and glanced up and away from my notebook.  I had meant to look away for just a moment…but it was a moment that broke my concentration and suddenly I could no longer focus.

My mind had wandered over to the next table about ten feet away from me where a family of four had sat down to enjoy their dinner.  The parents were sitting with their backs to me, so I could not see their faces.  The two beautiful young children, however, were facing towards so I could see them two clearly.  The girl was around the age of seven with bright eyes and straight, long blond hair that was pulled by blue ribbons away from her smooth, round face.  The little boy appeared to be much younger as he sat forward on the bench of the booth.  His small feet did not even reach the floor.  Like a typical 5-year-old, he swung and kicked his legs joyfully as he ate his meal.  Both children were incredibly well-behaved and radiated a glow of good health and the happy inner light of youthful joy.

I smiled at the children before turning my attention back to my notebook.  I was reading over the ideas I had scribbled down when I suddenly heard a small sound.  I glanced up and realized the little boy was now speaking in an enthusiastic, sweet voice that bridged the distance between our two tables.  I tried not to listen.  I didn’t want to eavesdrop but his words kept getting my attention.

“Mom,” the child said, “remember what I told you was going to happen in 45 years?”

Though I could not see the mother’s face, I noticed that her body suddenly grew tense.  Her movements seemed to be on pause for a moment as she stared at her son.  I didn’t hear her response because she spoke in a soft whisper.  I could only hear a few mumbled sounds but her voice was too low to make out any words.

“Mom,” the child said again, “I told you before what was going to happen in 45 years.”

Now, the mother cleared her throat and answered, “In 45 years, I’m going to be 79.  And you are going to be 50….”

But the young child was not satisfied with this answer.  “No, Momma,” he protested.  “Don’t you remember what I told you?  When you and I die…”

Now the mother began to frantically whisper again.  The tone of her voice was kind, but her body continued to be tense as she spoke quickly to the boy.  She tried to explain to the child how they would both age over the coming years.

“No, momma,” the boy interrupted her.  Though he spoke in a steady voice, the volume had increased as he tried to get his mother to understand.  “Remember, I told you when we are going to die.”  Then the child must have suddenly become aware his mother’s agitation.  He said, “It’s okay, Momma.  You don’t have to be afraid.”

Again, the mother spoke but her voice was too soft to hear.  Her hands began to idly pick at the food still lying on the paper wrappers in front of her.

The child responded, “Momma, you don’t have to be afraid.  I won’t let you be afraid.  It’s okay, Momma.  Heaven is wonderful!”

Again, the woman stiffened as she listened to her small son.  “Remember, Momma.  Heaven is beautiful!  Do you remember what’s going to happen to us when we get to heaven?”  The child then began to laugh.  “Don’t you remember, Momma, what it’s like in heaven?  I remember, Momma….”

Both the young girl and the father said nothing as the child talked.  The family now sat in stunned silence as the child talk about the glories of heaven.  He spoke about the love of God and a complete absence of fear and worry.

Finally, the family stood up from the table and began to walk to the exit.  Halfway across the restaurant to the door, the mother suddenly stopped, looked down at her son, and then engulfed her tiny prophet in a deep, loving embrace.  Slowly, they pulled apart and the mother gripped her son’s hand as they walked out of the door together.

I sat still for a moment as I contemplated what I just heard.  The phrase “A child will lead them” entered my mind.  Children are born into this world knowing all about heaven, the universe, past lives, and healing secrets.  Children can see angels and departed loved ones, and they understand God’s mercy in ways adults can no longer even contemplate.  It’s so sad that we lose the ability to truly know God and witness the glory of his universe as we grow older.  We lose the fascination of childhood.  We lose the possibility of the impossible.  We give up as we grow up.  We let go of faith, and hope, and miracles just so we can exist in a world that is fleeting at best.

I want to know the glory of God and the universe as I did when I was a child.  I want to be that five-year-old again who has no doubt about heaven and believes in all possibilities.  I want to be that child who saw angels and felt the presence of God in all things.  I thought about the bible verse from Matthew 18: 2-4:

“Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.  Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.”

Now, I smiled and put away my notebooks.  It suddenly didn’t matter how much work I could accomplish.  All my anxieties had disappeared.  I just had the sweetest of distractions and didn’t want to let go yet of the joy and happiness I was suddenly feeling.  I got up from my table and walked up to the front counter.  I bought myself chocolate ice cream which I hadn’t eaten in years.  I went back to my table and sat down slowly.  I tilted back in my seat and put my feet up on the opposite chair.  I sat for several minutes, enjoying the sweet taste of the ice cream as I watched the pink and orange glow of the sunset.  Life is not a distraction.  Yes, indeed, there is nothing to fear.  Heaven is wonderful!

 

 

Christmas Miracles

When I was a child, one of my favorite things about Christmas was my mother’s candy dish.  On Christmas Eve, Mom would fill a white, plastic, divided Tupperware dish with different sweets and place it on the kitchen table.  Christmas Day was the only time that her children could eat as much candy as we wanted without having to ask.  I would help myself to an endless supply of miniature peanut butter cups, Turtles, peanut clusters, various chocolate cremes, and M&Ms throughout the entire day.  As a child, I certainly indulged voraciously in one of my mother’s many Christmas traditions.

Mom loved Christmas.  “Christmas is a time when all of your dreams should come true,” she would say.  “Christmas is magical.  Miracles always happen at Christmas.”

My mother always tried hard to make Christmas a special time for her children.  She would scrimp and save all year, usually going without new clothes or shoes for herself, in order to have enough money for gifts and special treats.  Mom was always concerned that she would not be able to get the presents her children wanted in time for Christmas morning.  What if the stores were sold out?  What if we had a snowstorm and couldn’t leave the house?  What if the car broke down and we no longer had the money for presents?  Mom always started Christmas shopping in August.  The only problem was that every week one of her four children would suddenly change his or her mind about the gift he or she hoped to receive.  Mom was continually returning and purchasing gifts for her children until Christmas Eve.  So much for shopping early….

Our favorite presents, however, were always the little items Mom would place in our stockings.  Mom had bought each of her children a large, fluffy, white-and-red stocking.  Each year, she would fill up the stocking with small trinkets and knick-knacks that were always fun, entertaining, and enjoyable.  Her children would always rummage through the stockings first before even looking at the rest of the gifts.  Our Christmas stockings were always the most exciting and hilarious part of Christmas morning.  Mom would fill the stockings with costume jewelry, small dolls, Hot Wheel cars, puzzles, travel size bottles of shampoo, postage stamps, batteries, candy, cosmetics, and lottery tickets.  My mother would always be very clever and creative when filling our stockings.  The miniature stocking gifts would change, of course, as her children matured, but there were two consistent items that Mom would place in my stocking every year.  I would always receive a popcorn ball, which filled out the toe of the stocking, and a new, sealed tube of Chapstick.  A popcorn ball and Chapstick were always in my stocking every Christmas morning.

Several years later, when I moved away from Kansas, I had no idea what happened to my Christmas stocking.  I didn’t have any Christmas traditions of my own.  I didn’t put up a tree.  I didn’t string lights around my apartments.  I didn’t buy special foods.  I never decorated.  Over the years, I spent Christmas alone in quiet meditation, just enjoying the peacefulness of the day.  My childhood memories of Christmas sustained me.

Last August, after twenty-three years, I moved back to Kansas.  I am currently staying with my brother, Tony, and sister-in-law, Mary, in the home where I had spent the last few years of my childhood.  This holiday season is rather bittersweet.  My mother had passed away almost six years ago.  I was thinking of her and all of her Christmas traditions last weekend when Tony and Mary began decorating the house for the holiday season.  Tony was carrying up the artificial tree from the basement and setting it up in the family room.  “Wow!” I asked him.  “How long have you had this tree?”

“Oh,” he answered, “it’s about sixteen years old.”  As he continued to put the branches together, Tony and Mary told stories of past Christmas holidays.  They talked about financial struggles, old and new traditions, family losses, happy moments and times of stress.  They told stories of their first Christmas together and heartwarming anecdotes of when my fourteen-year-old nephew was a baby.  When the tree was finally up and completely decorated, when nothing but the soft glow of the multicolored lights illuminated the space, Tony and Mary stood in the middle of the room with their arms around each other and gazed lovingly at their tree with tears in their eyes.  That’s when I realized that this sixteen-year-old artificial tree was as real and as lovely as any tree in the deepest forest.

After a few minutes, Tony and Mary continued decorating their home with nativity scenes, Santa Claus figurines, and toy trains.  Tony reached into one large box and pulled out some fluffy red and white objects.  “Look, Jamie,” he called to me.  “I still have all of our stockings from when we were kids.”

“You do?” I asked in surprise.  “I haven’t seen mine in years.  I didn’t know it still existed.”

“Yeah,” Tony answered.  “I put all of them up on the mantel every year.  It’s not Christmas until the stockings are hung up.”  Tony proceeded then to hang the stockings carefully over the fireplace.  After a few minutes, I smiled as I realized how the family had grown.  Now, nine stockings hung over the fireplace.  I stared at the one that had my name printed in red glitter at the top of the stocking.  Suddenly, I noticed something.

“What’s in my stocking, Tony?” I asked him.

“What?” he answered and then laughed.  “Nothing’s in it.  It’s not Christmas yet.”

“No, Tony,” I said, “Look.  There is something bulging out in the middle of my stocking.  What is that? Did you put something in it?”

“No,” Tony stated.  “I hang up your stocking every year.  Since you usually aren’t here for Christmas, I don’t put anything in it.  It’s always been empty.”

I got up from my seat on the couch and walked over to the fireplace.  I reached my hand into my stocking and grabbed the object that was creating the small bulge in the middle of the fabric.  I pulled my hand out, looked at the item…and laughed.  “Oh, my God,” I said.

“What? What is it?” both Mary and Tony asked me.

I held my hand out and showed them that in my palm rested a sealed, unopened tube of Chapstick.  “How did this get in there?” I asked.

“That is strange,” Tony responded.  “After twenty years of hanging your stocking on the mantel, I never noticed it.  I didn’t know that was in there.  Are you sure you want it?  It’s got to be at least twenty years old.”

But I didn’t think so.  I smiled as I stared at the tube and then closed my fingers tightly around it.  “Thank you, Momma,” I whispered.  “I love you, too.”  This was my first Christmas in Kansas with family in twenty-three years.  I believe that my mother was welcoming me back home and wishing me a very happy Christmas.  People think I’m strange when I tell them this story, but I don’t care.  I believe my mother is still with me and she is watching out for me.  The tube of Chapstick was her way of letting me know that she still loves me and is happy I am home.

After all, Christmas is magical.  Miracles always happen at Christmas.

 

 

Valentine’s Day

Due to family obligations and work situations, a good friend and I had not had the opportunity to connect for a few months.  Last Wednesday, I sent her a text message.  I asked if she would be free to have lunch together soon and catch up on our lives.  My friend, Olga, answered me by texting that she was free on Saturday.  I excitedly let her know that Saturday would work for me as well.

The next day, Thursday, however, I suddenly realized that Saturday was Valentine’s Day.  I had completely forgotten about the holiday and wondered if my friend would have plans with her family.  I sent her another text message to remind her about the holiday.  Would Saturday still work for her?  Olga quickly answered back.  Yes, Saturday was still good.  She had no other plans.  Is Saturday good for me?  Yes…unfortunately….I had no other plans for Valentine’s Day either.

So I woke up early and went to the gym.  After my workout, I showered and quickly got dressed for the lunch appointment.  On the way to my friend’s house, I impulsively decided to stop by Wal-mart to grab a few small Valentine’s for her children.  I picked up small heart-shaped boxes of chocolates and sticker books for both of Olga’s little daughters, Jolie and Valkyrie.  Before I got to the register, though, I thought about the fact that Olga usually had several of her nieces and nephews staying at her home.  Since this was a holiday, I would feel awful giving to Olga’s two daughters and leaving the other little kids out.  I quickly tried to add up in my head how many nieces and nephews Olga had.  I quickly grabbed several more candy boxes, sticker books, and boxes of Transformer trading cards.  I paid for the items and then ran out to my car.  I drove over to my friend’s house.

I parked in front of Olga’s house, grabbed the Wal-mart bag, and climbed out of the car.  I walked up to the front door.  Before I could knock, though, the door opened and Olga’s sister, Lucy, stepped outside.  We shared a quick hug before I walked inside the house.  Lucy’s little daughter, Jay, was waiting inside the door.  The child suddenly threw her arms around my legs and gave me a deep hug.  I was surprised that she remembered me.  It had been several months since she had seen me.  I pulled out a candy box and a sticker book and handed it to her.  “Happy Valentine’s Day!” I told her.  Jay shrieked with excitement, grabbed the items, and ran down the hallway to the back bedroom waving the book and candy box over her head.

“Say thank you,” Lucy was screaming out to the little girl.

At the end of the hallway, Jay stopped and turned around to look at me.  “Thank you,” she squealed before turning and running through the far right door.

“Go on,” Lucy told me.  “Everyone is in the back bedroom.”

I walked down the hallway and entered the same doorway Jay had disappeared through a few seconds before.  Jay stood by a small table showing three other small children the treasures she had just received.  The children looked away from their coloring books and stared at the heart-shaped box of candy that Jay held out to them.  I didn’t want the other children to think I forgot about them, so I quickly pulled out of the bag the other boxes of candy, books, and trading cards.  I was surprised how thrilled the little kids were with these simple treasures.  They excitedly hugged the heart shaped boxes to their chests and giggled delightedly!  And they wouldn’t stop climbing on me!  They held my hands and wrapped their small arms around me for hugs and kisses.

After a few minutes, Olga was ready to leave.  I handed the Wal-mart bag to Lucy and let her know that the rest of the candy and sticker books were for the other small nieces and nephews who were not present at the time.  Olga and I left the house then and went out to a local Chinese restaurant.  We spent the next three hours sitting together, talking, crying laughing, sharing.  The whole experience was a reconnection of our friendship.  A beautiful 10-year friendship that is as fresh and clean today as it was when we had first meet in 2004.  My friend and I have been through a lot together.  Relationships, marriages, breakups, pregnancies, children, moves, job changes, emergency room visits, spiritual awakenings, deaths.  Though a few months can go by before we see each other again, I have never doubted her friendship and kindness.  After 3 hours, we left the restaurant and headed back to her house.

I walked with Olga up to the front door of her home.  The door opened and Jay pulled into the living room.  I stood in the kitchen and played with the kids.  I laughed with Olga’s children, Jolie and Val.  I held hands and teased with her nephew, Junior.  I watched Lucy’s small baby, Javin, stumble across the living room while he laughed uproariously.  I watched Jay perform endless tumbling routines around the house.

Finally, I told Olga and Lucy I needed to head back home.  Jay responded by wrapping her arms around my legs as I tried to walk to the door.  “I don’t want you to go,” she whispered as she held tightly to my legs.  She turned her head back to look at her mother.  “I don’t want her to go.  Her has to stay.  I want her to stay.”

“No,” Lucy told her.  “Jamie has to leave now.”

“I go home with her,” Jay stated.

I laughed then.  “Oh, I don’t think you want to come home with me,” I told her as I bent down to give her a hug.  “You don’t want to come home with me.  I’ll make you do the dishes and clean the bathroom.  You’ll have to do the laundry.”

“I’ll do it!  I’ll do it!”  Jay screamed as she jumped up and down excitedly.

“Oh, she will do it,” her mother laughs.  “She tries to do half the housework around here.”  Oh, so I guess that threat wasn’t going to work with Jay.  It usually keeps me away from home.

I laughed then and watched as the children continued to run and dance through the house, all of them holding the small, heart-shaped candy boxes.  After a while, I told Olga I needed to head home.  Before I was able to make it to the door, I was buried underneath a flurry of little bodies all hugging and kissing and screaming for me.  I hugged each of the children good-bye before I was finally being able to step outside of the house.  I walk over to my car, climbed in, and headed for home.  As I drove along Ramon Road, I thought of the stories, secrets, and emotions my friend and I had shared at lunch.  I thought about dancing and playing with all of the beautiful children.  I was amazed that simple heart-shaped boxes of chocolate could create so much excitement.  I suddenly realized then that I had just had one of the best Valentine’s Days of my life.

My Mother’s Dream

My mom and I would sit side by side on the small square concrete porch in the back yard on hot summer evenings in Kansas.  Our small house had no central air conditioning and there was nowhere else to go to escape the humid heat of the day.  We would just sit together and watch the day slowly disappear as we told each other our dreams.  My 10-year-old self talked about castles, princesses, movies, music, poems, and Donny Osmond. I would weave complicated future lives for myself of success and fortune.  My mother would just listen.  She never took a side.  She didn’t encourage nor discourage my dreams.  She would take a neutral position believing that would keep us both safe.

My mother was a woman of simple dreams.  She didn’t wish for large houses or fancy cars.  She didn’t want stylish clothes or expensive jewelry.  That summer, the only thing my mother dreamed of was an apple tree.

My mother sat on the porch one lazy evening.  In the glow of the setting sun, she stared out at our large fenced-in backyard.  I followed her gaze but couldn’t figure out what was so fascinating about the brown grass that was slowly decaying under the pressure of the hot summer sun.  I looked at the patches of dry, dusty, balding earth that pushed up sporadically through the grass.  My father had continually screamed at his four children to stop running, sliding, playing, and wrestling on the lawn.  But without video games, DVD players, cell phones, and stereos, there was really nothing more to do.  My siblings and I continually played outdoors.  One of our favorite games was to chase each other up the high hill that was part of our backyard.  We would tackle and then drag each other down the hill by the arm or the leg.  It was always more fun after a rainstorm.  We would pull and push each other down the hill and into the small puddles of mud that formed on the flat land that lead up to our back porch.

My mother’s eyes, however, saw something completely different as she stared into the distance.  “I want an apple tree,” my mother stated in the strongest, most determined voice I had ever heard her use.  “I want an apple tree to plant in this back yard.  Wouldn’t it be amazing, Jamie?” she asked, trying to draw me into her fantasy.  “Can you imagine just walking out our back door and pulling apples right off of our very own tree in our very own backyard?”  Her voice grew lighter as her eyes sparkled.  “I can make fresh apple pies for us.  I can make apple fritters and turnovers.  We would be cooler, too.  We could sit under the shade of the tree and get out of the heat for a while.”

I just smiled at my mother and didn’t say a word.  I was just a child and couldn’t see her vision.  I just saw a dry, dusty yard; the earth cracking apart from the heat.  My mother’s apple tree dream didn’t inspire me.

But Mom was determined.  The next day, she searched through the plants, flowers, and trees in the garden shop at our local K-mart.  This isn’t the first time Mom had browsed through the garden section.  Mom loved plants and had been successful with small gardens she had created in the back yard.  She grew roses, marigolds, tomatoes, and green beans.  Why not an apple tree, too?

Mom carefully looked through all of the trees and finally held one up triumphantly.  “Look at this one, Jamie,” she shrilled.  “Isn’t it beautiful?”

I silently stared at the 3-foot stick Mom held in front of her.  That’s all it was.  It was just a long stick with the far end encased in a plastic-wrapped wad of soil.  Mom lovingly placed the apple stick in her basket and carefully pushed it over to the check-out.

I watched as Mom opened up her small wallet and warily counted out four dollars.  She hesitated for just a moment as she held the money tightly in her hands.  She looked at the stick for a moment and then down at her money.  She glanced back at the stick and then down at me.  Then she slowly handed the money over to the cashier.  Even at a young age, I knew how much my mother had to scrimp and save just to have those four dollars.  She rarely spent any money on herself.

“We’ll have fresh apples, Jamie.  The whole family will enjoy the fruit from this tree.  We’ll make all kinds of pies and tarts.  This is going to be a great investment.”  On the way home, Mom talked on as she tried hard to justify her purchase.  I think part of her felt guilty about spending the money on something she really wanted.  Thinking she could share it with her children and that the family would benefit was the only way Mom could ever spend money on herself.

When we got back home, Mom proudly carried the apple stick out to the back yard.  At the base of the hill on the right side of the yard, my mother dug a hole about two feet deep.  She carefully stuck the now-unwrapped soiled end of the stick down into the hole.  She quickly maneuvered the dirt around the base.  Mom smiled then as she slowly backed away.  Suddenly she jumped forward quickly as the apple stick began to tilt to the left.  Mom quickly righted the stick and packed the dirt a little tighter on the left side.  My mother then sat back on the ground and smiled.  She lay back on the grass just staring up at the stick for a few minutes.  I’m sure she was seeing the tree as if it were already full grown and looming over the backyard.  I’m sure she was imaging the tree blooming, the apples growing, and the shadow of the tree hiding her from the sun.

Over the next several days, my mother tended loving to her apple stick.  It wasn’t an easy task with four energetic, rambunctious children, who had nothing to do on a lonely summer day, running around.  My siblings and I continued to play in the back yard.  Mom would run out of the back door every few minutes as she saw her beloved tree tilting dangerously to one side.  “Be careful,” she would scream to us.  “Watch out for a tree!”  All four of us would stare at Mom in surprise.  A tree would be easy to see and avoid.  It proved to be a little more difficult to sidestep a stick.  My siblings and I continually and accidentally ran and stumbled over Mom’s apple tree.

My mother kept a close eye on her tree over the next few days.  She constantly shouted to her children to be carefully when we were running, playing, and dragging each other around.  Over time, we became use to the tree sticking straight up from the ground.  However, the stick was hard to see in the dark.

One hot June night, with her children and a few neighbor kids playing tag in the backyard, Mom finally allowed herself to join in the fun.  In the dark, she whooped and cheered and laughed as she chased the kids around the yard.  Mom was having so much fun being a child again, she wasn’t paying any attention to where she was going.  Suddenly, all of the kids froze as we heard a crack, snap, and then a sad anguished cry.

My brother ran into the house and flipped on the back porch lit.  Now, the yellowish glow revealed the source of the strange noises.  My mother sat sprawled on the ground.  Her beautiful apple tree was now lying across her legs.  My mother reached down and picked up the stick.  The single stick of my mother’s apple tree had cracked and split right off at the roots.  I just remember the sadness in my mother’s eyes as she looked up at me. Anguish creased her face as she struggled to hold back the tears.

“Momma…”  I said slowly.

“It’s okay,” she answered as she brushed her hands over her face.  She pulled herself slowly up from the ground, still holding her apple tree in her hands.  “It’s okay,” she said.  Then she chuckled sarcastically, “I did it myself.  I killed the tree myself.”

Mom then slowly walked toward the house as her kids followed her like little ducklings.  We were all silent as we climbed into bed and went to sleep.

My mother was in the back yard early the next morning.  I watched through the bedroom window as she slowly dug up  the ground and pulled out the last remnants of her destroyed dream.  I watched my mother refill the hole with dirty as tears rolled down her face.  My mother’s tree was gone. My mother’s dreams were gone.  I’m sure she grieved, too, over her hard-earned money.  She had felt so guilty spending on herself in the first place.  Now, it felt like such a waste when she could have used the money for her children.  I watched my mother carry the roots of the tree over to the trash.  She paused before she dumped the bundle inside the large garbage can.  I swear I saw her pray over the tree before she let the roots drop from her hands.  She looked down at her dirty palms as tears again rolled down her face.  Then, she wiped her hands in the grass, took a deep breath, and smiled as she walked in the house to awake her children for the morning.

My mother kept her dreams private after that.  She never asked for anything more.  We would sit together on the back porch on summer evenings.  We were silent as we would sit side by side and watch the sun go down.

A Mother’s Love

Whenever I travel, I usually enjoy driving.  I love the experience of being on long cross-country road trips with nothing more than the car stereo and my own thoughts keeping me company.  I love the peace of driving down long lonely highways and watching the sunrise through my front windshield.  However, I was looking forward to letting someone else worry about the transportation on a recent plane flight from Las Vegas, Nevada, to Dallas, Texas.  I was looking forward to relaxing back in my seat, reading, writing, daydreaming, maybe sleeping a little bit, for the three hours of the flight.

I had to take a few deep breaths, though, as I settled down into my seat and buckled up.  I had to remember that other people might not be as anxious or excited as I was.  I tried not to sigh heavily as I watched the other passengers struggle to place their large bags in the limited overhead bin space and argue over who was going to get the window seat.  I just wanted to be up in the air now.  It would be a while, though, before all of the passengers were finally in their seats and ready for take-off.

Across the aisle from me, a family was settling into the row of three seats.  The grandmother sat on the aisle; the mother sat by the window.  In between them was a small 5-year-old boy.  As soon as the child was placed in his seat, he became fascinated with the fold out tray on the back of the seat in front of him.  He reached up to turn the small knob to release the tray and bring it down in front of him.  His mother and grandmother tried to tell the boy that he could not put the tray down until the plane was in the air.  This pronouncement produced a sudden meltdown in the young boy.  Suddenly, he began to cry.  His loud, high-pitched screams began to echo throughout the entire cabin.  His small feet began to kick at the tray and his hands formed into very small, yet still threatening, fists.  The young boy kicked, screamed, yelled, cried, and beat on the seat in front of him as his mother and grandmother tried to calm him down.  “Stop now!” his mother was harshly whispering to him as grandma was trying to distract him with an array of stuffed animals.  Neither method seemed to work.  The boy suddenly was completely out of control.

I tried desperately to concentrate on my book and not watch the drama taking place just two feet away from me.  It was hard trying to pretend that nothing was wrong as the boy had a complete break.  Over the pages of my book, I quickly threw a glance over at the family…and suddenly felt the breath knocked out of me.  The young boy was in such a screaming, crying, pounding, kicking tantrum, his mother was now physically restraining him.  As she continued to whisper to him to “stop” and “calm down,” her whole body was wrapped around him, holding down his hands and his legs to stop him from hitting and kicking.  I quickly looked away again, but still felt myself shaken by the sight I had just witnessed.  I know I shouldn’t judge, especially since I don’t have children, but I don’t recall ever seeing a child restrained like that in public before.  I turned back to my book and did not look up again until the plane had taken off.

Twenty minutes into the flight, the little boy had calmed down.  He was sitting in his seat, chewing on some crackers, and sipping from a clear green Sprite bottle.  This was, however, just the eye of the storm.  Not more than an hour later, the kicking and screaming started again.  Loud shrieks filled the cabin as the mother once again tried to restrain her angry young son.  The screams were so loud that this time the flight attendant intervened by taking the boy out of his seat and walking him around the cabin to calm him down.  This method worked.  After about 15 minutes, the flight attendant returned the young boy to his family.  He was again calm and happy.  Peace again reigned in the small cylinder cabin.

A few minutes later, I sighed in relief when the pilot announced that we would be landing in Dallas in 20 minutes.  I put my book down, stretched as much as I could in the tight space, and just happened to turn my head in the direction of the family.

Suddenly, my eyes flew open wide and my breath caught in my throat.  The young mother was once again holding onto her small son, only this time, it was much different.  The little boy was asleep.  He was nestled against his mother’s chest as she had her arms wrapped tightly around his body.  As if she was listening to some gentle lullaby in her head, the mother’s body swayed back and forth as she slowly rocked the boy.  Every now and then, her right hand would reach up and stroke back his short blond hair as she kissed him gently on the top of his head. Tears suddenly filled my eyes and my heart began to beat faster as I watched them.  Even after all of the recent tantrums, this woman truly loved her little boy.  All had been forgiven and mother and son were together as one solid image of unconditional love.

I now thought of the times I had tantrums when I was a child (or a young adult for that matter!), and my mother still continued to love me.  I couldn’t help but think what a great world this would be if we could all love the way that mothers do.  Can we, as people, ever overlook and forgive each other’s fears, frustrations, stresses, anxieties, and breakdowns? Could we all try a little harder to be more understanding of each other?

I looked at the young mother and son in their quiet, silent, loving moment and I pledged then that, even though I don’t have children, I was going to start showing more of a motherly love towards all people.  I am going to make this my New Year’s resolution: I want to love all people the way a mother does.