"We said a prayer for less stress for you," said the calm, friendly, sincere mother of a former student . . . a dear lady who reads my blog, who has donated to Jamie and Ali's Haitian Orphan Rescue on our behalf, and who made (along with her eldest son) a large batch of the most amazing tortilla soup when our two newest kids first came home. She obviously had read my "Twitch" post. Late this afternoon she happened to be up at the high school (after hours), and upon passing by my room, she popped her head in momentarily to relay simply the aforementioned statement. And then, she went graciously on her way so as to leave me to my work tasks. I stopped in the silence, however, humbled by her offering of time and heart to me. Whether you are a prayer or not, there is something universal about one human soul offering a bit of herself to another that is beautiful and healing. My present stressors are derived from many sources, several of which come from being "Mom," and my surprise support today came from a woman who is also "Mom" to four children.
My pop-in guest punctuated gently a difficult day, as I learned upon arrival to school this morning that an active mother of our school community passed away the evening prior. My thoughts were on her and with her children (all of whom I know), imagining in abstract pieces over minutes and class periods, in between teaching about latitude and over musical notes of Ancient Greek music, and I was left with nothing of which to grab ahold except heartache and disbelief. And more heartache. I felt it as a mother of children, and as a child of a mother.
And strangely, it reminded me of the vintage JCPenney care label my mom and I discovered when rummaging through a box of fabrics she plans to use for doll clothes for my girls. It (the fabric and the tag) is from 1970, and I mentioned about it months ago in a different post, but it continues to sit on my desk. I blogged it; so, move on. But I couldn't toss the tiny square of papery, plastic-y, fabric to the trash. After awhile it dawned on me why that was so, and today seems a fitting time to comment. "Grandma Finch," the doll-clothes-sewer, has created more than just a few homemade outfits for me over my youth, and in the 70's (when I was wee little, and when JCPenney apparently sold fabrics) she sewed professionally for a local store, particularly to serve bridal parties. Watching Mom sort through an endless box of fabric scraps with Anna and Baylor -- she and the girls plotting little styles from the striped strips and pink pieces, took me back to the quiet, creative hours I spent with her when I was a young girl. Times forgotten amid the bolder memories of lessons taught and learned about being assertive, and the Halloween grounding for being unkind, and proud smiles when I graduated with honors. Also, because we get caught up in looking forward, and well, in doing all the big and small things that we do, now, as the mothers.
I like looking at that little fabric tag, because it's good to connect with the quiet warmth of being with Mom. My mom.
And my fellow moms.
And for the children who long for theirs.
My pop-in guest punctuated gently a difficult day, as I learned upon arrival to school this morning that an active mother of our school community passed away the evening prior. My thoughts were on her and with her children (all of whom I know), imagining in abstract pieces over minutes and class periods, in between teaching about latitude and over musical notes of Ancient Greek music, and I was left with nothing of which to grab ahold except heartache and disbelief. And more heartache. I felt it as a mother of children, and as a child of a mother.
And strangely, it reminded me of the vintage JCPenney care label my mom and I discovered when rummaging through a box of fabrics she plans to use for doll clothes for my girls. It (the fabric and the tag) is from 1970, and I mentioned about it months ago in a different post, but it continues to sit on my desk. I blogged it; so, move on. But I couldn't toss the tiny square of papery, plastic-y, fabric to the trash. After awhile it dawned on me why that was so, and today seems a fitting time to comment. "Grandma Finch," the doll-clothes-sewer, has created more than just a few homemade outfits for me over my youth, and in the 70's (when I was wee little, and when JCPenney apparently sold fabrics) she sewed professionally for a local store, particularly to serve bridal parties. Watching Mom sort through an endless box of fabric scraps with Anna and Baylor -- she and the girls plotting little styles from the striped strips and pink pieces, took me back to the quiet, creative hours I spent with her when I was a young girl. Times forgotten amid the bolder memories of lessons taught and learned about being assertive, and the Halloween grounding for being unkind, and proud smiles when I graduated with honors. Also, because we get caught up in looking forward, and well, in doing all the big and small things that we do, now, as the mothers.
I like looking at that little fabric tag, because it's good to connect with the quiet warmth of being with Mom. My mom.
And my fellow moms.
And for the children who long for theirs.
You brought tears to my eyes. :) Have a blessed day
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