Reflection From My Mother's Desk

Spring rains continue to saturate the already soggy landscape. Looking out my window, the robins, sparrows, and occasional blackbirds happily search for fresh earthworms or insects.

I love the simple life I have chosen. Our home is over forty years old, and most of the furniture is either family heirlooms or secondhand from friends. Today, I'm writing from what has become a favorite location: my mother's desk. It's made of mahogany wood and festooned with its original brass-colored drawer pulls. A bookshelf with sliding glass doors adorns the front, and though in dire need of a new seat cushion, the matching chair remains the desk's constant companion.

I have written many blogs, musings, and books from this vantage point. But today, I'm simply strolling down a road of memories.

This desk has been in my parents' home for as long as I can remember. It is one of a kind, custom-made especially for my mom and dad by a good friend who we only knew by the name of Shorty.

Mom spent countless hours sitting here. It's where Christmas cards and letters to loved ones were written. This is where she meticulously kept the books for our modest family farm. Feeding six children and budgeting by relying on the gamble that the weather would cooperate and bring in a good harvest was often tiresome and stressful. And yet, she always managed. She never let on whether our family income was abundant or scarce. She was simple, steady, wise, and frugal. She was a guardian of peace in our home. Home was where we felt safe, and suppertime was a comfort all its own—beef and potatoes smothered in gravy, a plate of bread and vegetables, and always a slice of homemade pie or a few cookies to finish. The only real 'interruption' to the easy conversation around our well-worn table was the giggles from two of my sisters, especially when they ended up sitting across from each other.

But beyond those memories, I wonder how many tears have stained this desk. How many quiet prayers has it heard?

The definition of legacy can mean two things. The first is "an amount of money or property left to someone in a will." But the second is of a much greater value: "the long-lasting impact of particular events, actions, etc. that took place in the past or of a person's life." -That is who my mother was. A petite, strong woman who loved in everyday ways, which were often overlooked. Her language was not so much in words, but rather in the handmade quilts, ceramic nativitiy sets, or the favorite cake she made for each of us. It was how her blue eyes still looked at my dad with the love of a schoolgirl after over fifty years of marriage.

I'm reaching the age of "retirement" this year. Sometimes, when I look into the mirror, I can see my mother's face and ponder, "How am I doing, Mom?" I have questions I would love to ask, as well as pictures of my grandchildren or my garden that I long to share. However, time has marched by. She is no longer on this planet, yet I know a wonderful reunion is coming. Standing at the gates of heaven alongside my Jesus, she will be waiting for me. She'll introduce me to my sister, Faye, and a younger sibling I never knew. Her beautiful blue eyes will sparkle as she points to my dad's smiling face approaching with my four grandbabies, whom I have yet to meet. What a day that will be.

"As I think of your strong faith that was passed down through your family line. It began with your grandmother..who passed it on to your dear mother..and it's clear that you too are following in the footsteps of their godly example." 2 Timothy 1:5 TPT

Mother's Day stirs a blend of melancholy and gratitude. Still, I move forward with purpose, breathing each moment as a chance to build my own legacy and honor the woman who once sat in this chair.