In recognition of Mother’s Day last weekend, I found myself thinking about my mom, the sound of her laugh, the way she listened, and how she made a simple life beautiful.

She’s gone to heaven now, and days like this make me feel that ache a little more.   

What a wonderful mother she was. I miss her every single day. I know many of you understand this kind of missing.

Many of you can relate because your mother is gone from your life as well.

There are a million things I wish I could tell her.  I find that the conversations I long for aren’t deep or lengthy, but rather the simple, ordinary things that happen every day, like how we used to sit at the cafe in Walmart over a Diet Coke and discuss what to bring to the church potluck or how the kids were doing in school. 

She was so great to talk to.

She didn’t like being on the phone. When I was a very young mom living far away, we would talk faithfully once a week.   I lived in anticipation of that phone call every day until it happened.  And then I would wait for the next one. 

When I finally got a cell phone in my thirties, a whole new world opened up to me.  It was an analog phone, nothing smart about it.  It allowed me to call my mom more regularly, and nothing could’ve made me happier. 

Bless her heart, I know she must’ve lamented the day I got my hands on that phone because I couldn’t call her enough.  But, despite her dislike of being on the phone, she almost always answered.  And if she didn’t, she would faithfully call me back. 

Talking to her became a regular part of my life.

Then, in 2006, when we moved to the same small town where she lived, I still called even though she was only a few miles away.  Ha!

I’ve shared a lot about her over the years; I think writing about her is cathartic for me.   It’s the closest thing I have to hearing her voice again. 

I always thought she’d live to be a ripe old age, and I would help take care of her. 

But God had different plans.

I find the deepest comfort in knowing she is in heaven, waiting for the rest of us. 

I look forward to seeing her again one day.

When I look back over my life, I wonder if I thanked her enough for all the sacrifices she made.  Now that my kids are adults, I understand how difficult it is to raise children and launch them into the world. 

She did it with such grace, not perfectly because who does? 

But always with her whole heart.  

Her life wasn’t easy; she grew up very poor and had little in the way of possessions. She wasn’t a bit materialistic, though, and she made the most of what she did have. 

I’m not quite sure how she did it, but when I was a kid, I never realized I was poor.  I look back now and am immensely thankful that she understood we were rich in all the things that really mattered. 

Faith.

Family.

Friends.

I remember playing in the yard till dark, drinking from the water hose, riding my bike until my legs hurt, and eating dinner around the table every night. 

I took these things for granted.

They were the fabric of my life.

Now I realize they were a treasured gift.

I’ve told this story before, but it is so dear to me that I always love retelling it.

We lived in New Iberia, LA. 

I was around eight years old.

It’s where my third-grade teacher used to sit on the windowsill, reading books aloud to us.  She would take a few strands of hair and twist them around her finger while she read.  I picked up that habit and still carry it to this day. 

We lived in a single-wide trailer behind the church and right down the road from a sugar cane field.  We, my sisters and I, used to run the rows of those cane stalks for hours. 

They were sweet childhood days.

On the other side of our trailer was a deep drainage ditch that separated us from a pasture of cows.  The smell of cow patties in the heat of summer is something I’ll never forget. 

In late summer, right before the dull days of school would begin, my mom would tell us,

“If you  pick  some blackberries, I’ll make a cobbler.”

It was all we needed to hear.

We grabbed bowls from the kitchen and ran out the door, across the broken shell drive, into the large ditch to pick fresh blackberries. 

We ate as many as we picked.

Often, we came home with cuts from the thorns that grow on wild blackberry bushes.

And, of course, our tongues would be deep purple from the juicy berries. 

I had more than one stomachache from our excursions.

And, true to her word, she would wash the berries and prepare a cobbler.

Such sweet summer days.

When the weather cooperated, we would sit outside and eat our treat, and if there was money for it, we might have a scoop of ice cream on top.  

I never once thought about whether we had much because, on those summer evenings, I couldn’t imagine anyone being richer than me. 

Looking back, I realize she wasn’t just offering us a cobbler, she was offering us joy, something sweet in a life that didn’t always feel easy for her. 

She was likely carrying more than I understood at that tender young age.

I wonder if, in our desire to give our children more than we had, we miss the richness of a simple, humble life.

I have a thousand memories like this, simple joys that left me with a full heart. 

It’s not that my childhood was perfect, because whose was?  But it was steeped in faith, with good people working hard to provide for those God entrusted to them.  

I don’t think you can do any better than that. 

And, I think that’s why I miss her so much, she gave us what mattered most.