I’m a believer . . .
My mom was a wonderful person. A hard worker. Kind and caring. Supportive. Encouraging.
And funny. She gave us such terms as “Don’t eat that! It’s for Christmas!” and “I’m going to stop buying that peanut butter. You kids just eat it!”
And the ever popular “What's wrong with that milk. There's nothing wrong with that milk. It tastes just fine!”.
But Mom had a trait that she struggled with her whole life.
She was a world-class worrier.
She worried over debt and income and other things.
But mostly, she worried about her family. Especially her kids and grandkids.
She worried so much that she made herself sick.
A sickness that, fourteen years ago, took her life.
I’m like my mother in a lot of ways. Good ways, I hope.
And, though I’m not nearly in her class when it comes to worrying, I do have that tendency.
And that brings me to what happened the other night . . .
Some of my children are struggling. The downturn in the economy has cost many in our area their jobs and our family is not immune.
The stresses of job-hunting as well as keeping a family going with little or no income are taking their toll.
And I’ve been worrying.
Earlier this week, I was sitting on the edge of my bed, sunk in despair.
And then a scent drifted over me.
A scent I haven’t smelled in years.
My mother’s favourite perfume.
Now, you have to know that I do not wear perfume. And that particular scent hasn’t been sold in forever.
I knew it was my mother.
Worried about me still and doing what she could to make things better.
Thank you, Mom.
I miss you.