THE GENE MIRROR

I’m not sure what prompted the writer of this little ditty.

I think it’s saying that our parents’ traits (and physical characteristics) show up more as we age. Or, as another wag put it, the acorn doesn’t fall far from the oak tree. I’ll never know how my mother would have looked at my age now. It’s been 41 years since cancer took her at age 59. I do remember her early-crinkly skin—she blamed it on being Norwegian. Chemotherapy messed with her hair cells so much I’ll never know how natural gray would have come.

We both suffered broken ankles (as did my sister), so have a well-earned limp. Her cooking style included “frugal smorgasbord”—using the Norwegian feast word to dress up a menu of refrigerator leftovers. I’ve been known to similarly plan a menu by checking out what’s hiding in plastic containers in the frig. She hardly met a piece of fabric she didn’t want to create something out of. Well, I enjoy making something useful out of scraps, but don’t have the room to stockpile “projects” as she did. (Her sewing workroom/storage was my old 10x10 bedroom—so full it became a yard sale of itself after her death.)

Thoughts of her “at rest” bring up her relaxing in her mustard yellow rocker (oh, such an ugly color) with her “letters box” in her lap.  This was a clipboard with a storage compartment underneath for her stationery and stamps.  She wrote hundreds of letters back in those pre-computer days to keep her eight siblings connected. I have sticky notes near my computer to remind me to drop a note (by mail or e-mail) to someone who comes to mind, especially to bring encouragement.  Even in this era of cryptic, quickie E-notes, there’s something to treasure in a real letter. It seems warmer.

WRINKLES
I’ve come to the stage of life where the title of a Madeline L’Engle book describes my face: “A Wrinkle in Time.” I never slathered it with pricey skin creams; maybe I should have. But then I recall Mother's excuse of having the Norske genes for wrinkles. 

I’ve heard it said that our faces are mirrors to our soul. I’m not sure what people think when they see me. I hope they look past the aging imperfections to my heart. I’m proud of my children, who grew up with quality friends, excelled in high school and college, and now are married with children, responsible employment, still-quality friends, and—most important—a faith in Christ they “own.” I think of Proverbs 15:20: “A wise son brings joy to his father, but a foolish man despises his mother.”  I’ve seen the second happen, and it is very sad.  Then there’s Proverbs 23:22: “Listen to your father, who gave you life, and do not despise your mother when she is old.” During the time Solomon penned these proverbs, women were not respected. Their role was to bear children and keep the household going. I’m glad Solomon paused to encourage respect and honor to mothers.

More than we probably realize, we imitate our parents. If they are, or were, good people, it is a high calling. If they lacked in principle or honor, it’s even more imperative that we seek to change the image of our past. Or, to put it another way, to look into God's mirror, with the perfect image of His Son as our Example, and say, "In my spirit and character, I want to look more and more like Jesus." 

Can't go wrong with that!

In the pink

The dogwood—pink, of course--glows each spring in what used to be my mother-in-law's backyard. Planted as she reached her mid-eighties, the little sapling managed to get about as tall as Doris, my husband's mother, before we had to move her to a care home for her last year of life. Catching a glimpse of its profusion of pink, I remember her love—no, obsession—with the color pink. Except for one navy dress kept for funerals (“to be respectful,” she reasoned) her closet had every “pink” hue imaginable. Her towels, sheets, blanket, bedspread, couch and recliner were pink. So were her bedroom walls! This Mother's Day, I remember how my pink-loving mother-in-law stepped up to help her son’s bride (me), whose own mother had died years earlier. When my first baby came, she was there to help in practical ways. In birthing classes, they taught us how to breathe through labor, but nothing about some essential infant-care skills, like an at-home "bath" in a plastic dishwashing tub in the kitchen sink.  She took it in stride, calling it "baby's first swim."

Two decades later, I would become her cheerleader as she went through the death of her husband, cancer, a heart attack and finally the onset of Alzheimer’s. It was in those years of “fading” that we learned how to honor a parent figure, serving as both friend and helper. In special remembrance of her, I have kept this photo on the hutch in our eat-in kitchen. Yes, she’s wearing pink (a pale pink shirt and pink pants). But there’s an obvious look of love at her son (my husband) who took such good care of his parents, and especially of his mother when she was widowed.  I found this photo after her death, and it was a sacred moment when I turned it over and read what she had written:

This year, Easter came the day before her birthday, so my thoughts again went to her and our supportive role in her decline in her eighties. Many times she remarked to me, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” We all knew she needed increasing help. "Families”--typically children taking care of ailing, aging parents--are the Lord’s plan on this side of Heaven. I think of how Jesus, in excruciating pain as He died on the cross, arranged for His earthly mother’s care.  His ministry took Him away from home, but at the end, as the oldest, He provided a role model of “taking care of details.”  He saw Mary with his disciple John (“the disciple whom He loved”) and said, “Dear woman, here is your son.”  To John, “Here is your mother.”  From that time, we’re told, John took Mary into his home (John 19:26-27).  

Care of one’s parents didn't always happen, even in Bible times. When the prophet Micah described a nation with upside-down values, he told of families where members despise each other:
"For a son dishonors his father, a daughter rises up against her mother, a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law--a man's enemies are the members of his own household." (Micah 7:6)
Sad--and sadder, I see it happening today. No parent is perfect. Neither are sons or daughters. But God’s plan is that the family unit be the practice room for love and consideration that comes from a growing walk with Christ.
There’s a phrase, “in the pink,” meaning “in good health and spirits.” But my pink-loving mother-in-law's lifestyle has prompted me to add a new slant, of healthy spiritual living. It's serving others, trusting God, and being grateful in little things. Or, as the next verse in Micah says, "But as for me, I watch in hope for the LORD, I wait for God my Savior; my God will hear me."

One more splash of springtime pink, in Doris's honor: