What would your mother do? Pray.

What can one mom even do to make a difference?

We moms need to know this.

More of a short series about all the huge little things moms do. It’s not a contest, but let’s all tell about our memories of those little things that mean so much, that only moms know how to do best. ❤

My mom was very, very private about her spiritual life.

I did not even know she had one, actually,

I think she always sort of believed that was between her and God.

pexels-photo-110874.jpegHowever, on the day I came to her and grumbled that the rain outdoors was keeping me from playing out there, I learned.

I remember it like yesterday. I don’t know how old I was, but I was tall enough that the washing machine top came to my shoulders.

I remember we were in the laundry room when I grumbled, and my mom was right there, hearing. This is what she said:

Kathy, I don’t ever want to hear you complaining about the rain. We need rain badly and I prayed for this rain. And now we have some and we are very happy.

Well, that got my attention.

I remember feeling uncomfortable about hearing her talk of real prayer with real answers. It really was a sort of confession of her faith, and I would have felt lots better hearing it if I’d had another grown-up with me to help me carry the heavy load of my mom’s answered prayers.

I felt too little to hear such grown-up things.

But I grew into it. And now I pray. And I never complain about the weather.

What about you? Did your mother pray? Do you know what she prayed for? Was she private about it?

What would your mother do? Fix things!

What can one mom even do to make a difference?

We moms need to know this.

Starting a short series here, today, about all the huge little things moms do. It’s not a contest, but let’s all tell about our memories of those little things that mean so much, that only moms know how to do best. ❤

[Unidentified girl in dress holding American f...

[Unidentified girl in dress holding American flag and ball] (LOC) (Photo credit: The Library of Congress)

So here’s mine, for today: I was tiny, but I remember the dress so vividly. My mom was shocked I ever remembered it because she said I was only two years at the time. I do remember it, though. It was my favorite dress. Why I loved it so, I am not sure. It was brown plaid, which I like a lot, to this day. It had ruffly lace and puffy sleeves. I don’t know, really, what it was.

But I loved it.

This was back in the days before perma-press, back when little girls always wore dresses, even at play. Always.

And froze our little bare legs off in winter, in case you wondered.

Anyway, I loved me a dress.

Then one day the horrible happened. I spilled my milk on my favorite dress. I was devastated. I could not begin to understand much of anything, yet, but I knew I did not like the way my favorite dress looked, now. So I did what any red-blooded American two-year-old would do.

I cried.

My mom couldn’t understand, and asked me what was wrong. When I told her about the spill, I remember what she did.

She got down, sort of sitting on her heels, at face-to-face level with me, and told me it was okay, that she could wash the dress and it would be fine again.

Those of you who’ve read here a long time, know what happened next. And you know what good it did. The rest of you can read the links. Have fun!

And share with us your story: What did you mess up, in your childhood, that your mom knew how to fix? Aren’t moms great!

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You can never go home.

The Prescott Family Home

The Prescott Family Home (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I posted two fun posts awhile back, here and here, but they always bothered me. I think maybe I allowed the posts to get off the point. Perhaps I even mistakenly pointed it in the wrong direction.

I wrote about motherhood, about whether we do anything or not, about pay, about respect, and tried to do so in a humorous way.

From this distance, though, I am beginning to think a tiny bit differently, and that tiny shift can make a big difference.

The whole topic is not about motherhood, as we joked. It is not about pay or even about volunteerism. I have just realized it is not even about work.

If I confused anyone, I am sorry. Pretty sure it was my fault.

So What’s It About?

It is about WHERE we work.

Those who loaf at a polished desk are counted in the work force if that polished desk is not at home.

Those who stay actively busy for 20 out of 24 hours, producing, advancing society, trying to improve life for everyone they touch, are not counted in the work force, if they do all this at home.

This is really, truly, about the destruction and devaluation of the home, and, guilty by association, the stay-at-home woman.

Go home. If you do, you will finally grasp what life is all about.

Remembering a Missing Friend

Remember this?

A dear friend of mine died during elective surgery, 12 years ago.

English: Flower arrangement for funeral Dansk:...

Flower arrangement for funeral (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

A home-educating mom, she left behind two young children and their faithful dad. Last time I saw them, the kids were doing fine. Actually, they were not so young anymore, then, one in high school and the other in college. They showed many signs of good parenting. It made me glad for the memory of their mother, my friend.

She had always been so heart-felt. She and I could talk about any serious subject and seemingly always understand each other before we had completed a sentence. When a subject was especially deep or important to her, she would become misty-eyed as she spoke. That happens to me, too, and often did when we conversed. We both understood that about each other.

This seriousness in her shows in her children. Oh, they laugh. In fact, their beautiful smiles erupt at any chance, and they see the humor in life’s oddities, all the time.

They are not silly, though. They are something more like blossoming or fruitful. They have combined the gentle rain their dad always supplied into their lives with the sunlight their mother always added. They have become strong, tall trees and have dedicated their lives to doing right. It makes me glad for the memory of their mother, my friend.

Somewhere out there exists a video of her delivering an impromptu speech about her strong convictions on homeschooling. She is near tears as she speaks for the record, as I was every time I viewed it. She pleaded with parents to take their children seriously.

This distillation of her heartbeat riveted me to my seat on every viewing. She was younger than I was, then, far younger than I am now, yet her bold insistence on protecting and preparing children imparted strength to my backbone. Only a hardhearted person could walk away from the truth she expressed without pondering, at least, if there might not somehow be more…

She makes me want more, every time I remember her. More grace. More energy. More conviction. More boldness. More follow-through. More prayer. More tears when I talk.

More blossoms and fruit on my trees.

More sun and rain on my trees.

More.