The Letter

The letter. Written on my heart in permanent drops of a mother’s love. 

Rewinding Conversations with Momma

Sipping my morning coffee mixes well with a sentimental journey. It seems that in those times when I am preparing meals, I tend to re-wind from conversations with my Momma and everything about her presence in the memory speaks love and comfort to my heart.

Momma's waves

Many times, she sat me in a kitchen chair so she could ‘wave’ or sculpt banana curls my black hair, using Carnation milk, gave me opportunities to ask her questions. She offered so much positive encouragement when I shared any concern with her. Her words, like jumper cables on a battery, gave me the boost I needed.

Heartfelt, childhood conversations with my Momma have been shared in different places, times, and seasons. Our trip into town on the bus and the clapping of her suede heels hitting the sidewalk as we headed to the salon for my perm. And I chattered as we made the little mid-summer jaunts from our house around the mountain side to tend the garden. And sometimes in the kitchen where she created some of the most delectable meals. I was curious as I stood by the old cabinet with the flour bin and porcelain top where I watched two hard working hands mix and knead dough that provided rolls, biscuits or pies for her family. I was always hanging around wherever Momma went, full of curiosity and seeking answers for any subject I didn’t understand. The one invisible ingredient used for every effort…It's the heartfelt taste of that mother’s love that nourished my soul and recorded the endearing times with her.

Those memories never grow old because I have stored them in my heart

we are standing on the wooden walk in front of the water tank and cliff in our mountain home

like priceless jewels. They are locked away for those times when I need a comforting touch or a momentary escape to a simpler time.

Momma was not afraid of hard work, and it showed in the way she preserved foods for winter use and the extra touches she applied to our clothing on wash day. She exemplified a woman with endurance to weather the storms of life.

Then, there was the lighter side that drew her away for a few moments of fun…

The time came that I needed to learn to make bubbles from bubble gum. I couldn’t figure out how the grown-ups were doing that. I took my momma captive in her room and lying cross ways on the bed, I insisted that she stay put until I had this down to a science. Every time I took her jaws in my pudgy hands and said, "do it again", she laughed at me because of my determination. And so, she stayed with the task until I gave her “permission” to leave my presence. Now that I'm an adult who enjoys reading the Scriptures, this event with my Momma reminds me of Jacob who wrestled with an Angel at Bethel and said, "I will not let you go until you bless me!" Of course, my momma being the angel in this scene...Mission accomplished.

Momma allowed me to get “under foot” too, as she lovingly prepared our meals. As a young child, I so loved watching her mix a batch of homemade rolls on that old kitchen cabinet with the built- in flour bin and sifter and the pull-out enamel top on which she kneaded the bread. She then placed that large lump of dough in a crock bowl covered with a cloth and placed it on a chair behind the cook stove where the warmth would cause the dough to rise. The smell of yeast permeated the kitchen…It’s a wonder that people from miles around didn’t get a whiff of that wonderful bread baking in the oven and ascend to the mountain where we lived!

And. her clappy, black suede heels, the beautiful fragrance of Pond’s cold cream on her face, the gentleness of the hands that applied the Vick’s VapoRub and a warm flannel cloth to ease the croup.  And the beauty of her Auburn red hair in the sunlight. Memory nuggets stored in my heart for safe keeping.

Those rich, impressive qualities of my Momma’s presence as well as her cooking over the years, have written on my heart a love letter that I am able to go back and read over and over…I know it was a “mother’s measure of love” that was added to every dish she prepared. Thank you, Momma.

She watches over the ways of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness. Her children rise up and call her blessed; Prov.31