Her weary bones and heavy heart never took her soul. She fed it nightly with scripture, verse after verse and then again, often forgetting what she had just read. She was never alone although sometimes she couldn’t remember who was in the room with her. She trusted enough to live, enough to sometimes smile and even giggle at life’s funny moments. She was a rarity, a real gem. She was our mother, an irreplaceable part of our lives.
I was crushed after her passing. I picked up her Bible and held it close to my chest. Taking a deep breath, I sighed with a tad bit of relief knowing that this was the one possession she cherished. I found peace in that. I opened it to the front page and fought back tears as I read her shaky handwriting, “Give to Joyce when I’m gone.” I didn’t make it to Genesis, angry that she left her Bible to my sister. She knew I’d see the note.
I followed her wishes. My sister cried with happiness at her inheritance. It was more valuable than she could realize. I stormed out of her house and drove as fast as I could back home. I sat down in momma’s chair and mourned, only now with confirmation that she loved my sister more than me. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and hopelessly stared at her chest of drawers. Sitting on the cherry wood was another Bible, the one she had been given on her wedding day by her own mother. We assumed for years that it had been lost. A small bunch of purple lilacs sat atop her favorite scripture, Psalms one. Only I knew of her love for those words. I haven’t a clue how it reappeared but I know it was a gift from God.
Leesa Writes 