What about Mom?

A heart-share is good for the soul

 

May I get gutsy today, and share my heart with you? You know I'm going to anyway.

We are seeking wisdom from above regarding moving my Mom from California to Illinois, so she can be near us.

Since my brother died two years ago, I've become an only child. I don't like it. I feel like Mom is my sole responsibility, and if anything bad sould happen to her, it'd be my fault.

Of course there is always someone quick to say, "You SHOULD move your mom near you. She NEEDS you here, or she NEEDS  to be there. My Bible says those who don't care for their family are worse than INFIDELS." I try to ignore those types of comments. But I don't always succeed.

And what about Mom? She does not want to move to the midwest. She likes her church, her apartment, and her friends where she is.

Even though she's falling more often than before, and the day will soon come when she can't drive, I still don't want to force her to relocate to a strange town, a new home, and unfamiliar surroundings, just so I can assuage my sense of guilt over not doing my duty.

And, no, there are no assisted living apartments or retirement villas near her. She lives in a very remote area of No. California that makes our rural town of 9,000 look like a metroplis!

I'm not asking for your advice, just your prayers. I know many of you have older parents, and you've had to make tough decsions regarding them. So you know how we feel, and what kinds of challenges we're facing.

There. I feel so much better after telling you. I knew you'd understand. That's why I love you like I do. Thanks.

The Invitation

When Mom set the grocery bags on the table, her eyebrows looked like a capital V. “Do you know anything about Jenny running down our driveway, crying?” she said.

I was too young to have honed my lying methods. I opened my eyes as large as I could, but I think my voice rising two notches gave me away. “No, Mom, I have no idea.”

“I think you do, young lady. Jenny was sobbing like she’d lost her last friend when I drove up just now. Either you tell me what happened, or you can march up to your room and stay there ‘til you’re ready to talk.”

 

I emptied both lungs with a sigh and plopped down on the couch. “Well, maybe she was upset because I invited her to my birthday party, and when she asked if she had to bring a gift, I said, “yes.’”

Mom’s eyes flashed fire. “You didn’t! Jeanette, you know good and well that her grandma is raising Jenny. She can barely afford to put food on the table, let alone buy a present for a seven-year-old with too many toys already. You go right down there and apologize to Jenny. Tell her she is welcome to your party, and she doesn’t need to bring a gift. Parties are not for presents, anyway. They are for celebrating our friends, and you won’t have any left if you keep that selfish attitude.”

Now it was my turn to cry. How could I face Jenny, and confess that my penchant for presents carried me away? Lying was out; I saw how well that worked. So I trudged the half a block down the street and rang the bell, gulping back my tears, and  re-invited Jenny to my party. Thankfully, she accepted, or Mom would still be mad at me.

 

Did you hear about the party Jesus is planning for all His friends? It’s called the Marriage Supper of the Lamb. You can read about it in Revelation 19. I’m sure it will be one huge shindig of a celebration. And unlike me at age seven, Jesus isn’t expecting fancy gifts from us.

That may surprise some people. They thought that to get into Heaven, they had to do a certain number of good deeds, or give so many dollars to charity. But Jesus has already paid for the entire party. He’s the one giving us the gift of eternal fellowship with God.

It cost Him dearly—His very life—and I know He’ll be disappointed if you don’t show up.

 

Oh, there is one little present all of us need to bring to get into Jesus’ party. Our hearts. But when you think of all He’s done for us, it’s not that much to ask, really.

After my seventh birthday party—which included Jenny—we moved away and I lost track of her. I can only hope she’s discovered about Jesus’ party, and that I’ll see her there. And neither of us will be crying.

Have you given your heart to Jesus? It's all He asks to make His party and your life complete.

Housework. . . Not for Wimps

 

            Not all women have it. A few of us were still asleep the morning they handed out the I love housework gene.

“Dust bunnies are for wimps” became my motto when I discovered dust kangaroos, with families of dust joeys springing out of their pockets every few days to stir up some fun.

            Because we live in the parsonage and my husband’s desk is a pulpit, I figure I should try to appear neat once or twice a year. So I force myself to clean by inviting guests to dinner.

The only problem with this clever plan is that I wait until the day of the party to start my cleaning mania. I race around the dining table disrobing chair backs of their sweaters, flinging them into shocked closets. The windowsills resent my removal of the dust that’s kept them warm for the last six weeks. My kitchen floor gets tipsy on Spic ‘n’ Span.

            After the guests leave, I flop on the couch and moan. “Why do I torture myself like this? What possessed me to invite seventeen people over? Well, at least the house looks sparkly. Let’s keep it this way forever!” I know I am duping no one but me. It’s as realistic as stating, “I will never overreact again.”

The only time I enjoyed housework was when we were first married, and the pride of reigning as queen over my own domain spurred me to dust, mop and scrub. That cleaning frenzy lasted two whole weeks. After that, I concocted my brilliant invite friends over scheme.

           

           Once we had kids, I began worrying: what if they asked their Kindergarten teacher what a dustpan was? To avoid this embarrassment, I gave them chores at very early ages. But we had to hold off when our daughter whipped a sewing kit out of her pocket and offered to mend her preschool helper’s ripped jeans.

When the kids were eight and eleven, we took them to a discount store and let them pick out their own laundry baskets. On the way home I casually asked, “Guess what we’re doing today?  I’m going to teach you to wash clothes.”

            From the rearview mirror, I caught our son’s eyes roll as he snorted, “I knew there had to be a catch!”

            “Someday you’ll thank me,” I said.

            As teenagers, our kids did all the cleaning except changing the sheets on our bed. It worked beautifully. Until our daughter moved to college, and my son and I divided her chores between us. He got his done all right, since I raised his salary two dollars a week. But mine…well.  I always have had a fondness for baby kangaroos.

 

       Do you enjoy housework?