Abiding here in God’s Holy presence these past 7 days at Mom’s bedside, I find myself gazing at and caressing her face and lifting the covers to see and touch her hand.
These are the parts of her that are so dear to me. Her face is old and wrinkled. How can wrinkles be beautiful, I wonder? Yet every detail of her features is only beauty. Her hands are wrinkled and spotted with age but they are hands I treasure to hold. I think of all she’s done with her hands and my heart warms . . . her baking, especially her 7up pound cake and Christmas cookies; her cooking, pot roast with carrots, potatoes, onions, macaroni and cheese, sweet potatoes, green beans, sweet iced tea, red beans and rice, cornbread; her gardening, azaleas, dogwood, roses, lilies; her home, fresh with windows open, family room hominess, fireplace warmth, Monday night football with Mark explaining the rules of the game – every game; decorating her home at Christmas, tree ornaments collected over the years, mistletoe hung, Christmas lights lit, It’s a Wonderful Life and Miracle on 34th Street on television, Christmas dinner at the dining room table, linens laid, silver polished, china set, family gathered and Mom serving; picnic at the beach under the umbrella surrounded by the vast sun-reflected gulf, dolphinsjumping, waves crashing, salt breeze blowing, gathered under the umbrella soaking in the moments together; trips to the mall, pushing baby strollers, holding little girls’ hands, buying special gifts, frilly dresses hung in the closet; sitting side by side at the piano patiently instructing and then taking pleasure in their playing. And then I remember our moments together in the kitchen, side by side, baking, cooking, sharing, molding and shaping. Looking up at the night sky to see the moon and stars, modeling awe for God’s creation for her granddaughters.Looking out her kitchen window to her garden taking pleasure in the birds, robins, bluebirds, cardinals, humming birds. And her gentle voice on the phone saying, “It’s just me.”
These are the parts of her that are so dear to me. Her face is old and wrinkled. How can wrinkles be beautiful, I wonder? Yet every detail of her features is only beauty. Her hands are wrinkled and spotted with age but they are hands I treasure to hold. I think of all she’s done with her hands and my heart warms . . . her baking, especially her 7up pound cake and Christmas cookies; her cooking, pot roast with carrots, potatoes, onions, macaroni and cheese, sweet potatoes, green beans, sweet iced tea, red beans and rice, cornbread; her gardening, azaleas, dogwood, roses, lilies; her home, fresh with windows open, family room hominess, fireplace warmth, Monday night football with Mark explaining the rules of the game – every game; decorating her home at Christmas, tree ornaments collected over the years, mistletoe hung, Christmas lights lit, It’s a Wonderful Life and Miracle on 34th Street on television, Christmas dinner at the dining room table, linens laid, silver polished, china set, family gathered and Mom serving; picnic at the beach under the umbrella surrounded by the vast sun-reflected gulf, dolphinsjumping, waves crashing, salt breeze blowing, gathered under the umbrella soaking in the moments together; trips to the mall, pushing baby strollers, holding little girls’ hands, buying special gifts, frilly dresses hung in the closet; sitting side by side at the piano patiently instructing and then taking pleasure in their playing. And then I remember our moments together in the kitchen, side by side, baking, cooking, sharing, molding and shaping. Looking up at the night sky to see the moon and stars, modeling awe for God’s creation for her granddaughters.Looking out her kitchen window to her garden taking pleasure in the birds, robins, bluebirds, cardinals, humming birds. And her gentle voice on the phone saying, “It’s just me.”
Mom Randall was escorted by angels into God’s presence on Tuesday, September 3 at 5:35 p.m.
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