Precious

Today would have been my mother's 86th birthday. Unfortunately, she passed away in 2006. I miss her so much; but, rather than write a teary-eyed narrative, I want to honor her by remembering the things that were uniquely Lil.

Lillian was her given name, but most folks knew her as "Lil." She was the sort of person that didn't draw a lot of attention to herself. Rather, she was quite comfortable remaining behind the scenes. This does not mean that she was a wallflower, because she wasn't. She spoke her mind and was personable with everyone she came in contact with. She was a beautiful woman. When I look at the photos of her when she was younger, I know why my dad was smitten with her.



I went to elementary school at Lexington and she would usually be one of the first in line to pick me up at the end of the day. Most days, she would have a treat waiting for me at home. She made the most delicious pound cake ever! Do you know how special it is to come home from a full day of school and have a warm pound cake waiting on you...the smell of a freshly baked cake wafting through the house? And there was always a cold glass of chocolate milk sitting beside the cake. Mmmmmm!

One of my favorite memories was how exasperated she got with me one day. I had problems with tonsillitis often as a young lad, which meant that I made frequent trips to the doctor. Back in those days, if you had an infection, the doctor gave you a shot...no questions...no negotiating. I hated shots and, because of my tonsils, I had to get one about once every two to three months. One afternoon she drove me to the doctor's office, pulled in the parking lot, and told me to get out of the car. I told her I wasn't going in. She said firmly, "Get out, now!" I didn't budge. So she got out of the car, went over to some bushes, and yanked off a switch. Now, my momma could wear me out with a switch, but I had a plan that day. When she tried to open the passenger-side door, I jumped into the back seat. She walked around to the door closest to me and I jumped back into the front seat. This little cat-and-mouse game went on for about five minutes...back and forth over the seats. Oooooweee, was she mad?! Trust me, the shot didn't hurt near as bad as the whipping did.

She was really a kind and gentle woman, though. Mom consistently told me how much she loved me. She would often say, "If you were laying in a ditch full of sewage, I'd pick you up, clean you off, hug and kiss you. That's what mommas do...they love their children no matter what." I believed her.



From looking at her, you wouldn't believe that she was a huge boxing fan. She knew and understood boxing strategy probably better than the present generation knows UFC and mixed martial arts fighting. And Katie-bar-the-door if you got between her and the television set while a fight was in progress. Now get this picture: a mild, meek woman sitting in a recliner...screaming "Hit him upside the head! Now, hit him in the body! That's it, that's it! Knock him out!" It was a sight to see, to say the least.

Mom loved to sing. Later in life, she kept a songbook close by at all times. When someone dropped by on a visit, she'd pull out the songbook and ask the guest if they wanted to sing some songs...and it was always a cappella. She sang with such conviction...even if she didn't remember the melody. And she'd laugh at herself when she hit a sour note. Trust me, her smile could light up a room.



She was partially paralyzed from a stroke she experienced in 1986. But her spirit was always determined. Before the doctors released her from the hospital in '86, they told the family that we could help her rehabilitation by getting her to perform routine tasks during the day. So, we all made a conscious effort to get her back on a normal track. Angie and I decided that we'd get her to make us some hot dogs for lunch one day. We figured that heating up some chili and warming up some wieners should be easy enough. We arrived at her house and, amazingly, she had everything prepared just right. So, we sat down to eat. Angie and I went on and on about how good the lunch looked. Mom poured a bunch of chili on top of her bun and started eating. About half way through the hot dog, she exclaimed, "My wienie keeps slipping away. I've taken several bites but have only gotten bun and chili." After careful examination, we noted that she forgot to put the wiener on the bun. I'll bet we laughed for thirty minutes. In fact, I almost choked from laughing so hard.

The family all poked fun at how she talked. She had this way of speaking in this high-pitched vernacular. It was endearing and funny at the same time. Plus, she could be rather persistent with her line of questioning. When I was in college circa 1981, I came home one day for lunch and she had fried some chicken. I was in a hurry because I had another class at one o'clock. I made my plate, which included a piece of chicken, French fries, and some black-eyed peas. I also squirted some ketchup on the plate for my fries. After we sat down to eat, Mom asked me, (please remember to use a high-pitched tone when you read her part) "Mark, do you want some ketchup for your fries?" "No, I've already got some ketchup." A few minutes later... "Mark, don't you want some ketchup?" "No, Mom, I've already got some ketchup." A few minutes pass again... "Mark, are you sure you don't want any ketchup for your fries?" "Mom, for the last time, I already have ketchup!" Moments later... "I'll bet your fries would taste better if you'd put some ketchup on 'em." "You know, Mom, you're right. Give me the dang ketchup." I don't recall exactly what I did, but I probably squirted more ketchup on my plate than ten men could eat. I calmed down a few minutes later and she asked, "Those fries taste better with ketchup, don't they?" "Yes m'am." Her tenacity was truly amazing.



One Saturday in October 2006, I received a call from her assisted living home. They said that my mom had fallen and they didn't know what to do. I told them to call an ambulance immediately and I'd be right there. John and I promptly left for her apartment. When we arrived, she was sitting on the floor, just in front of her recliner. She said to me, "Mark, I was backing up to sit down and just missed the chair." Although she was in a great deal of pain, she still smiled when she saw me. We were able to get her repositioned in her chair but she was hurting really bad. A good while before, she had fallen at home and broken her hip, and I was afraid that she had done it again. The rehab for the first broken hip was almost more than she could bear.

After we arrived at the hospital, in typical fashion, they made her wait in a cold examination room for hours. They offered her no pain medicine and didn't attend to her much. {I could do a whole week's worth of blogs on the ER and their apparent lack of compassion...but I won't.} While we were there, she and I had some good discussions. She talked about the family and how much she loved everyone of the kids, grandkids, and great grandkids. She spoke lovingly about each and every one. Eerily, we talked about the sudden death of one of our friends from church. A healthy, athletic lady had died the day before and Mom and I both agreed that we didn't know when God would call us home...so we better be ready. But mostly, I remember Mom telling me how much she loved me. She became very serious at one moment. She reached out and held my hand and said, "Mark, when you were born, all I could think of was...this baby is precious. You know, that's what you are...precious. You always have been...precious." I didn't know what to say or what to think. I was so overwhelmed by her tender words. And I kept thinking, "No, Mom, you're precious."

That night, my mom passed away suddenly. Apparently, a blood clot, caused by her fractured hip, made its way to her heart. God called her home. But trust me, she was ready. And you know what I'll bet God said to her as she entered heaven? "Welcome home, precious."