Love Letter

I had my procedure today. It was a little better than last time -- not so hard to breathe afterward.
But I was still grateful Dan was there to drive me home so I could just lean my seat back and focus on being calm.

Last time on the ride home I was very upset, but listened to my meditation song, "I Am," and for an instant, I felt God and Christ's love for me. It was pure, uncomplicated, and it washed through me. I never want to forget.

Today on the way home, I thought of my mom. Partly because after my procedure the nurse told me that I am a good example of how to be calm. That's because I'm a good relaxer. And that's because of my mom. Before I had Courtney, my mom said the key to natural childbirth was being able to relax, and that I would be good at it. I believed her. And I am.

The other reason my mom came to my mind had to do with the week before when I felt love. This week I thought about many some of the  times I felt her love.

Some things I remembered:

The time I came home from Mill Hollow camp on my 10-year-old birthday. She was in our small kitchen making dinner -- including cucumbers and vinegar, my requested birthday side dish -- and I was giddy with excitement, hopping on one foot, then the other, then spinning around as I talked and talked, telling her every detail of everything that happened while I was away and how much I loved it.

Waking up from my second foot surgery when I was 19. I was being rolled in the hospital bed to the recovery room, and she was there, walking with us. I was so relieved she was next to me and that she held my hand while I cried "it hurts so much."

On the way home, she was driving and I was in the back of the minivan. Panicked I called to her "I need to throw-up!" She was so calm. "I'll pull over and you can just open the door and throw-up on the side of the road."

When I realized I needed to have that surgery, I felt overwhelmed with how to find a doctor. Without me asking, she made numerous phone calls and researched the best doctors to find the best surgeon and outcome.

Her sitting with me while I was in early labor with Marty. She knew just what I needed. "Do you want me to talk and you can just listen?" Yes, that was exactly what I wanted. I leaned my head back on the couch, breathing through contractions and she talked and talked about each of my family members, entertaining and distracting me.

I have a picture of my Mom holding me when I'm about one year old. We're on a lake with mountains behind us, puffy clouds in the sky and she's wearing big white sunglasses. My hand is stretched out, touching her face. And she is smiling, not at the camera, but at me--letting me put my fingers on her lips, her cheek. In that instant we have each other's complete attention. I've often wished I could remember my feelings at that moment.

I imagine I was thinking that it wasn't enough that she was holding me close, but I needed to touch her as well. As if all my senses wanted to connect with this most special person in the world -- my mother.