Visiting

Mom. Doing dishes with Aunt Grace in the motel bathroom.
Getting in her visit where she can...

I come from a long line of church-attending people.

Call it a tradition.

When I was young we attended with amazing regularity.

Did you know that Sunday comes every. Single. Week?

Well, it does.

Now a little background here . . .

We lived 20 miles from the nearest town of Milk River, Alberta.

The ranch we lived on was its own little village. With an ever-changing population.

Sometimes, there were other women (foreman’s wife, female cook). Sometimes not. (Foreman: single. Cook: Mom)

For my Mom, living there year after year, it could sometimes be a bit lonely when her husband was off ranching, serving on several committees, veterinarian-ing, searching out new bulls by attending sales in far-off places. Far, far off places.

And she ached for someone to talk to.

Then Sunday would come around.

Presenting her with myriad visiting possibilities once the church services had ended.

I remember her standing and talking almost desperately. There was a lot to say and only a short window of time in which to do it.

Because her children would be antsy to head home to the delicious dinner they knew was waiting. She carried on doggedly through a progression of frowns and eye-rolls. Throat-clearings. And finally sleeve-pullings and increasingly louder expressions of, “Mo-om!”.

I admit it, my next older brother and I were the worst.

Moving forward half a century. Mom has been happily visiting with friends in Heaven for nearly two decades . . .

I had attended Sabbath meetings with my brother and his sweet wife. The services were over. I was standing in the foyer, waiting while my brother and his wife finished their respective conversations with friends.

I knew that a delicious dinner was waiting for us at their home.

I sighed and briefly considered moving right to sleeve-pulling and, “Ge-orge!” but I restrained myself.

How far I’ve come.

Brother and Sweet Wife