To My Beautiful Mother on This Mother's Day

On Sunday, we have the privilege of telling our mothers how much we care for and appreciate them for every sacrifice they made in their lives for their children. We will be able to say "Thank you" to the great women who gave us life and who, at the risk of their own lives, gave us form and breath. Three days after we celebrate our mothers on Mother's Day, I get another day to celebrate the birth of my mother. And with whatever material gift I decide to give her, which is usually another flower to add to her yard because she was the one who gave me my love of all things beautiful, I've decided that I will give voice to the memories that occasionally find their way to remind me that among all the people in my life, Mom is the woman who has shown me what it is to love without condition and who taught me that love is, as the Bible says, patient and kind.

Her love for me, my siblings, her sisters, her parents, strangers, and my father has given me hope that when the darkness is at its worst and I feel like I have no one to turn to, I will always have her as my safe haven of love and light. And with these small memories, i hope to show to those who only barely know her that a goddess has blessed me with love and life. She has never given up on me even when I have made decisions in my life that she hasn't agreed with. Mother is love.

I wish I could bring memories of my infancy about, but I was not blessed with this gift; however, as I watch her care for her grandchildren, I get a glimpse of how she was with me and my siblings. She is always making sure she has cookies, Popsicles, ice cream, crackers, and healthy snack options for my nieces and nephews. She is right there to make sure they are okay when they fall. She holds them when they cry, even though it hurts her arms and back. She seeks to find resolution and peace when they fight with their cousins or siblings. And she makes sure they feel like they are always welcome with a hug, a kiss, and a welcoming smile as soon as they walk through the door. I know when I see this, all of these moments of shared affection, that when I was an infant to my teenage years, and even now, she did and does the same for me however and whenever she can.

When we lived in our old, old, old, old house, the house I was raised in and the first home I knew, Mom strove daily to make life an adventure; she strove for all of us to be happy. Though the house only had three bedrooms, and, granted I was only a child, I never felt cramped or felt like there was not room for me among my nine siblings. The boys slept together in one room, the three youngest girls in another, and my oldest sisters had their own room, while my parents had a bed in the living room downstairs. The house, at the time to me, felt massive and when I would get lost or scared in its expanse, I always had Mom to turn to for comfort.

Mom used to wear silk pajamas and a navy blue robe with colorful flowers all over. In times of fear or pain, when I needed her presence to comfort me, I would turn into a chick, hiding under the wings and legs of its mother. I would latch onto her leg and refuse to leave her side. I would hold the silk material between my fingers and rub that softness between my fingers and I would suck on my left ring and pinky fingers; I would relish in her loving, protective presence. I knew as long as I was there everything would be fine. My fears were quelled in knowing that Mom would protect me.

As I grew older, though still in diapers, I began to venture away from under her wings. I would play outside in the always manicured lawn, running through sprinklers, playing in the ditch, or hiding in the hole in the lilac bush. As Spring came every year, the flowers Mom planted would bloom and the garden that she and Dad planted would grow. I loved to see the flowers, smell their perfume, and play in the dirt from which they grew. Nothing was off limits in my play.

I knew Mom loved her flowers. I knew they added to the beauty and welcoming feeling she was trying to provide for her family and friends. I knew Mom loved them so much. So much so that one day, I went out and picked all of the blossoms of the flowers in one of her gardens and brought them to her. "Look Mom, I picked you some flowers," I said grinning. 

Though her once full flower garden had been innocently robbed of its blossomed beauty, and though it marred the outward beauty of our home, Mom didn't raise her voice and yell at me; she didn't punish me. She simply smiled and, smiling, took the gift from me. She sent me off to play once more. I'm sure she mourned the loss of the flowers in her garden, but she loved the innocent child who robbed the garden of its beauty. She showed his importance to her over the flower garden. Her children were always more important.

When I was two years old, I suffered through some agonizing pain because of a birth defect dealing with a muscle growth near my left kidney and my ureter. I don't remember much of this pain; I assume that I blacked out so many times that I forgot. What I do remember is the care my loving parents gave me. Mom says that I used to be in so much pain that I rolled around on the floor and wouldn't let her hold me until I passed out from the pain. I can only imagine what it had been like for her to watch her child suffer and not be able to do anything.

They eventually found out what was wrong and surgery fixed it. All of this is lost in memory; however, I do have one distinct memory in this time. I remember going in to get an X-ray. Mom held my hand as the doctor poked me with a needle to inject me with the iodine for the contrast X-ray. The doctor had me lay on my back on a cold metallic table; the only thing keeping me warm was the thin cotton gown and my underwear and socks. 

The doctor took Mom behind a door with a window while he took the X-ray. I remember Mom protectively watching as I shivered on the table, trying to remain still. As soon as the doctor was finished, Mom was at my side, caressing and holding my hand. She did what she could to calm my fears. She was always calming my fears and always at my side when I needed her; she never failed.

As I grew older and we moved to a new house, Mom always maintained a beautiful pristine home. She filled the house with the aroma of homemade bread, freshly baked cookies, and good home cooking. The menu was always changing, but the aromas of Mom's cooking were always inviting. I imagine the cartoon hand coming from the food and, reaching my nose, beckoning me to the dinner table. I always looked forward to Mom's cooking; I still do.

One of my strongest memories of my Mom, besides her welcome embrace that calmed my fears and dried my tears, is her guitar and her angelic voice. Mom always had a song on her tongue, be it a jingle, a hymn, a country song, etc. She was filling the world up with her joyous melodies. My love of music and the necessity in my life for music stems from the ever present musical notes that filled our home. When the aromas of her baking and cooking weren't filling the home, her melodious voice filled the void. Sometimes the mixture of the two was the most pleasant and joyous part of life as a Campbell. Mom made and makes life joyous.

In her late thirties, I'm sure due to the stress of a large family, Mom went grey. She was still very young and beautiful, but for some reason, the grey is a marker of being a grandmother and not a mother. We would be walking into the grocery store and a stranger would bend down to ask me, "Oh, is this your Grandma?" To which I proudly responded, "No! This is my Mom." I always knew that this comment from strangers would hurt her, though she never showed her hurt.

Mom started to dye her hair so that the grey didn't show and so no one would ask if she was my grandma. But, no matter her hair color, I was always proud she was and is still my mom. I always thought she was beautiful and as I grew older, I would start to ask her why she dyed her hair because I thought she was beautiful no matter the color of her hair. Eventually, she stopped coloring her hair and now she has the most beautiful white hair to match the perfection everywhere else.

There are so many memories of my wonderful mother that I could write a biography and I would still never be able to encapsulate the woman I know; the woman I am blessed to call Mom. I will never be able to do justice to her beautiful being and soul. However, as we celebrate Mother's Day, I hope to have shown parts of the woman I know and show my gratitude to her. I wish you all could know the woman I know.

To my blessed Mother, I love you with all my heart. There is only one person that can fill your spot in my heart and that will forever be you. I am blessed everyday to have a goddess like you to call Mom. No one can or will ever replace you. When my turn comes to care for you and give you comfort, I can only hope to come close to giving you what you gave to me.

In the children's book Love You Forever by Robert Munsch, the life of a child is shown culminating in the birth of his own child. At One point in the book, the young man comes into his mother's house and rocking her, the man says, "I'll love you forever. I'll like you for always. As long as I'm living, my Mommy you'll be." Thanks for being you, Mom. No one could have done it better. All my love. Forever and always, "As Long as I'm living, my Mommy you'll be."