A Revisionist's History: Mom

I had the opportunity to speak to a group of women at my Church on Tuesday evening. I was asked to consider the women that have had an impact on my life and—this was more suggested than stated—speak to how these women made do with their limited resources to overcome the challenges they faced in their time. Ultimately, I believe, it was hoped that by sharing these experiences we would be able to impart a measure of hope to the women attending.

Obviously, that was no small order to fill. Anyway, when I finally got around to putting something to paper, the following remembrances sprung, almost as it were, fully-formed from the pen. As it happened, I didn’t share what follows that evening. But since the Muse was kind enough to guide my pen, I thought I’d pass her beneficence on to the “interwebs”.

When I was about ten years old, in order help make ends meet, mom worked evenings in the women's intimates section at ZCMI, a local department store. On those nights she worked, dad would come home and make refried bean and cheese burritos in the microwave. I still remember watching him scoop the beans right out of the can with a spoon and spread them on the tortillas. He wouldn't even grate the cheese. He’d carve off a slice of cheddar and flick it onto the beans. It was either that or watered down, canned chili.

After dinner, we'd grudgingly read scriptures at dad’s behest. On those nights, without mom, he lacked the softer, conversational side mom could draw out of him. Just as uncomfortable with the arrangement as we were, dad was all business. Now, some twenty years later, I understand a little of what he faced on those nights. It’s not easy transitioning from work to the role of maitre d’. But he soldiered on. He knows no other way. And he did a better job back then than I manage now with my own children. Poor kids.

One night, my younger sister Amy said something that I found outrageously funny during dinner. So I did the only logical thing under those circumstances, I sprayed—no, exploded---nay, violently erupted—chili all over the white curtain that mom made to cover the rear sliding glass door. The blast zone was something approaching 15 square feet. Dad wasn't afraid to use his "outside voice" on us, and we deserved it that night. Those were dark days for all of us.

To be fair, it wasn't all hard labor on half rations. We would often drive down to the department store at closing time and pick mom up from work. Rather than wander through the lingerie and underwear looking for mom, Dad would take us to the candy counter at ZCMI and buy a bag of "peanut clusters." I still crave peanut clusters today but have never found any that tasted half as good as those.

One of the most difficult periods of my family life took place during the two short years we lived in the Meadowdale area of Edmonds, Washington. Having spent close to four years of my early teen life in Utah nestled in a tight-knit ward with kids who could have passed for the butter-cream gang, I was completely unprepared for what I saw taking place among the youth in the Meadowdale Ward. I was no saint, but this was a rough crowd.

About a year after we moved into the ward, Bishop Dalton asked my mother to serve as the Relief Society President. Well, the adults must have struggled as well. I remember two things about those years very, very distinctly. First, the phone rang incessantly. Second, it seemed like mom cried almost as often as that phone rang. And in retrospect, I believe I understand now that at least part of the time she was crying for us kids. Those too were dark days for our family.

Later, by the time I reached high school, mom agreed to work full time to finance things like braces, school clothes with the then ubiquitous Nike swoosh, assist with the mortgage and generally to help make ends meet. Dad expected us to pay for at least half of our car insurance and all the gas we ran through our Dodge Dart (the second car). One month, during my junior year of high school I lost my keys at school three different times. Mom told me that if I lost my keys one more time, she'd personally have my license revoked. Like the mature young man that I was, I grabbed what must have been her keys, stomped out of the house, and went for a long drive. That is one of the only times I remember disagreeing with my mother.

Before the age of e-mail, my mom wrote me every week of my mission. Missions have a tendency of dishing out really painful experiences. A month or so before completing my first year in the mission, I served with a very disobedient and physically and emotionally abusive missionary. It was then, in my extremity, at a time when I felt completely alone and isolated, that I wrote to my mother. I needed to communicate with someone. I needed to share even if only in words some of what I was struggling to overcome. About a month later, the mission president called me up and asked me why I had to go and get him in trouble. I was so self-absorbed that I didn’t realize until much, much later that my words must have caused her as much pain as the experience itself caused me.

Serving in Guatemala was physically demanding in many ways. I've never been so cold, so sick, or lived on so little food or so little money.  In an effort to ease some of the discomfort, mom periodically sent packages with such provisions as new shoes, new coats, a blanket and many other things I needed on my mission. And everything—but a few backpacking meals and some literally half-eaten cookies (which I ate anyway because they looked so good)—was stolen by the Guatemalan Postal Service. I never even knew she sent those things until I returned to Spokane two years later.

I have not always appreciated the sacrifices mom has made. But through more than one dark period, mom, through her sacrifices, has been the glue that held things together, the driving force that kept us all moving, and the reason we were able to smile through the discomfort.

Even today mom continues to work full-time. She has allowed herself to receive promotion after promotion in an insurance job she doesn’t particularly enjoy so that she can bless others. Mom uses her “ill-gotten gains” to help bring us together as a family, to help finance family vacations, and to help finance home improvement projects on both sides of the continental US.

I love mom because she sacrifices for the Lord.

I love mom because she sacrifices for me and my family.

I love mom because she accepted me, even and especially when I was not accepting of myself.

I love mom because she loves Rachael and has welcomed her into the family as her own daughter.