To honor my mother

I didn't honor my mother much during her lifetime.

Oh, I always remembered her birthday and Mother's Day and hers and daddy's wedding anniversary (usually with a card). But I didn't really honor her.

I know I adored her. Loved her. I admired her. I didn't want to be like her, though. I definitely didn't want to be a pastor's wife. Too much work. Too much "putting on a pleasant face even when you wanted to cry."

My mother was loved by everybody, at least that's the impression I get because any time I mention my mom to someone who knew her, they always says, "I loved her so much."

She WAS a sweet lady. Always smiling. She was the perfect pastor's wife. I wanted none of that.

I received my musical ability from my mom who played the piano beautifully. My father played by ear, and that was passed down to me also. I wish I had received her artistic ability. She could draw anything, and it looked like what she was drawing. I can't draw a stick figure that resembles even the stick figure I want it to resemble. My mom wasn't a great cook, but I loved everything she ever prepared, but then I like to eat.

As far as honoring my mother -- when I got to my teenage years I didn't even call her mom, or mommy, or mother. I called her "wom" (short for woman). I figured if our Lord Jesus could call his mother Woman, I could call my mother woman or a derivative thereof. How unglorifying and unhonoring is that? I cry when I think of those four years.

The "wom" phase ended when I went to college and mom because Mom again.

How does one honor their mother? In words and deeds. My words were honoring toward my mom, but I don't think my deeds followed suit. I didn't do anything specifically that would dishonor either my mother or my father, but I didn't hold my mom in the high regard I now do.

I know I always respected my mother, but when I became an adult and had my own children, I think I thought of my mother as more my age and conversed with her as such, bringing her down to my level. I should have raised myself up to hers.

I sometimes, now, want to call her on the phone. My mother was good at giving advice, but only when asked for. She didn't foist her opinion or advice on any topic upon any other person unless they first asked for it.

I remember asking for advice on a problem I had (physically) when I was pregnant and mom told me to ingest a tablespoon of olive oil each day until the malady cleared up. Good advice, it worked, but getting it down was a problem.

I always asked my mom for advice, when I had my own home, about plants and how to care for them, because she always has such a beautiful garden. I never did, but I tried.

My mom always spent time in the morning, while sipping her cup of coffee and eating her toast, reading her Italian Bible. Why she read the Bible in Italian, I don't know (rather than English). I never asked her, and I wish I had. She was raised with the Italian Bible, and like me, raised with the King James Version, it is my preferred text. So, I assume that's why she always read her Italian Bible. She carried the KJV to church.

My mom went over and above each Sunday. Most Sunday evenings (until I was no longer at home, then they dropped off) people from the church would "drop in" for coffee and some sort of repast -- usually crackers, lunch meats, and cheese, and some sort of dessert. The drinks were coffee or tea. Often mom would make soup. If there were special speakers or missionaries, they were invited. And mom never complained about this.

You all know how small mom's house was, but there was always room for "one more".

As she aged, my respect deepened and my requests for advice became more numerous. I know my mom prayed for each one of her children, and while we didn't always appreciate it at that time, in retrospect, we certainly do now.

So, today, Mother's Day, 2008, I finally HONOR my mother -- Rose Sbaraglia Drexler.