Words To Live By » Mother’s Day

A Letter To My Mom

James McAlister — Mon, 04 May 2009 06:00:00 +0000

Following is the talk given by my son Barrett at his mother’s funeral. I post it again for Mother’s Day as a reminder of just how quickly our time with our mothers, wives and daughters can slip away from us. There are other Mother’s Day posts under the Holidays category on the right-hand side.

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As many of you know, my mother had a great love for literature, especially children’s literature. And there was one book that she got years ago that’s entitled Love You Forever. It’s a story about a mother who sang to her baby son, “I’ll love you forever; I’ll love you for always; As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.” She continued this throughout his life.

Eventually, however, their roles reversed. The mother got sick, and her son took care of her. Then he went home to his son, held him in his arms and sang, “I’ll love you forever; I’ll love you for always; As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.” Mom and I read that book countless times–and always cried.

This book was much on my mind as I wrote this letter to my mom after seeing her in the emergency room. I was badly shaken, and there were so many things I wanted to tell her. I read this letter to her the following evening in the hospital.
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Dear Mom,

I have so many things I’d like to say to you, but I’m not sure if I can get the words out of my head onto the paper. So this might ramble a little bit.

When Brandi and I walked into the ER, we were taken aback. You and Dad hadn’t exactly told us how sick you really were. Seeing you made me realize how short life is and how so many memories come to mind at such times. Memories likeâ€¦..

“Mommy, rock me in the red rocker.” This is probably my first real memory.

Caffeine-free Diet Coke. I didn’t know there was anything else to drink.

Putting war paint on Wesley and me and sneaking in crosses so we would be Christian Indians.

Lunch at Pizza Inn. We played games, and you attempted to make me do some homework.

Shaving my head before BMA camp. What a haircut!

Scrapbooks for every year of my life. I still love to look at them, and I’m sure that your grandson Jackson will as well.

The detailed journals you kept. Do you remember that when we were having fights you would pull out the journals and read them to me? Hearing how much love you had for me always seemed to shape me up.

You always took me to soccer and baseball practices and to baseball and Tae Kwon Do as well.

Countless costumes for dress up.

Playing dodge ball in the hall. Playing Pente, Aggravation, Sorry, dominoes, and 42. Trying to teach me to play the piano.

Tricking me into believing that Grandpa was giving me a hoe for Christmas–and it was really a microscope.

Encouraging me to go and do without being afraid of the world.

Standing by the convictions God had given you and Dad without caring whether others agreed.

Producing amazing productions for Christmas, Thanksgiving, Presidents’ Day–and anything else than could be used for a learning opportunity.

Crazy birthday parades and banners that found their way into the newspaper.

Never showing different amounts of love to Jenny and me. You loved us both the same.

Giving up a career to stay home and teach me even though you had never even heard of such a thing.

Summer reading programs. Reading to Dad, Jenny and me. Instilling in me a love for literature.

Mom, I regret that I have wasted so many years in not loving and appreciating you and Dad in the way that the two of you deserve. But I want you to know that the things that you tried to instill in me were not wasted. I look forward to instilling them in Jackson. Your legacy will live on. I also want you to know that you and Dad are my heroes. I hope that Brandi and I can be the parents that you have been.

I love you, Mom, and I treasure the time that we have left together. And whether that be one more day or twenty years, I want you to remember one thing: I’ll love you forever; I’ll love you for always; As long as I’m living, my mommy you’ll be.
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Barrett was able to spend eight more days with his mom. You can listen to his talk at www.james-mc.com.

Listen here

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Memories Of Mothers

James McAlister — Wed, 07 May 2003 00:20:00 +0000

Flipping though the scrapbook pages of our memories just a week ago turned up images of several mothers.

Page one opened at Deal Cemetery in Ladelle, Ark.

Mary's mother, grandmother and great-grandmother are all buried there. And though never a mother herself, our daughter Jenny occupies a spot as well, awaiting the ultimate arrival of her mother to bring one branch of the family tree to completion.

Unseen earthly remains and granite markers are but insignificant tokens of lives once lived, of joy and sadness, victory and defeat–all inseparable components of motherhood.

We lingered in the cemetery for half an hour or so, noticing subtle changes: how tall the stunted cedar tree had grown since the stately oak, once tiny itself in former generations, had died and opened a path for the sunlight.

Flipping to page two found us touring the campus of the University of Arkansas at Monticello. My mother graduated from there, and her mother, Sarah Norrell Tyson, whom we called Mama T, was housemother of Wells Hall. I often visited Mama T and propelled my bicycle around campus, streaking down sidewalks to the Commons and occasionally pausing to examine the flashing, finned inhabitants of the goldfish ponds.

Page three opened on East Jackson Street in front of the old house we shared with Miss Carolina Royer in the late 40s. While living there, Mother took sick, near death some would later say, and Daddy would take my sister and me to visit her in the hospital. When Mother returned home, I recall how she craved bits of crushed ice to suck on until she could drink fluids. Wrapping ice cubes in a wash cloth, I would try to gently crush them for her with a hammer. Now, even the hospital is gone.

South Edwards Street, page four. Our house is smaller now than childhood recollection paints it, and the redbud tree, once the superstructure of a boy's treehouse, is conspicuously absent. But the tin-clad, sloping door to the storm cellar where Mother would rapidly dispatch us when tornadoes threatened still appears to serve as a makeshift slide to yet another generation of children. The musty smell of that cellar, which Mother provisioned with blankets, water and a lantern, still prickles my nose.

Page five, back in Conway, and I'm studying the story of a large yellow "smiley face" sticker from 1984 in one of Mary's scrapbooks: Mary had been napping when three-year-old Barrett and I returned from a trip to the lumberyard, where a man had given him that sticker. Mary awoke to gentle pressure on her shoulder as Barrett affixed the sticker to her shirt with never-to-be-forgotten words: "This is your medal for being the sweetest mommy in the world."

Mother's Day is not as much about how we express appreciation to our mothers, but of fond and demonstrable recollections of what mothers have done to make themselves memorable.

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To Mothers First Of All

James McAlister — Thu, 14 May 1998 22:42:00 +0000

I recently heard a friend sadly remark that this would be his first Christmas without his mother. I empathized with the difficult adjustment that he is making because my own mother has been dead for 26-1/2 years — exactly half my life. Having now lived as long without her as I did with her, I understand more clearly her sacrifices and commitments. I regret that my appreciation for her fell far short of what it should have been.

Neither of our children ever knew a grandmother, and I have often hurt for the empty spot in their experience that only a caring, involved grandmother can fill. I must hasten to say, however, that their mother has been there for them, filling both roles as best she could. She has loved them intently and completely, fully dedicating herself to their success. And she has consistently prayed for them and the various issues and struggles of their lives. She has understood that motherhood is far more than a biological scorecard or a temporary side track on the main line to success.

I believe that a mother's influence is greatly underestimated. There's certainly truth in this line from a famous poem by William Ross Wallace: "The hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world." I rather think, however, that when we are able to look back from the vantagepoint of eternity we will see something far more remarkable.

I believe that we will finally comprehend the full extent to which history's course has been turned, tragedy's wounds have been salved, and "turns for the worse" have been straightened by the love, prayers, and involvement of mothers. I am grateful that my children have had such a mother. I pray that they will not ever have to look back — as I have today — and regret that they didn't appreciate the treasure that had been theirs.

We would all fare better to restore motherhood to the marvelous dignity and position it once enjoyed … while we have the chance.

TO MOTHERS FIRST OF ALL

There's one whom God has tapped from birth
By His own special call
To build His kingdom here on earth,
And "Mother" says it all.

No one can know a mother's heart,
Her hopes, her joys, her fears;
And how she ably plays her part
Midst tests and trials and tears.

She loves the child who goes astray
And comforts each who cries.
She guards her flock by night and day
And will until she dies.

And if a child has gone before
Across that great divide,
Her sorrow here she'll feel no more
Once they stand side by side.

She gets small thanks, earth's pay is poor,
Her labors never end.
But she is rich who knows for sure
Her children are her friends.

The giants of earth will step aside
When Christ each name does call
To give rewards for deeds of life:
To mothers first of all.

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