5 Minute Friday - What Mama Did

I remember her tenderness.  When we were sick she was tender, bringing us orange juice and warm washcloths for our heads.  Tough as nails the rest of the time though.  There were high expectations for our behavior.  Saturdays were cleaning days.  We were to help or get lost in the neighborhood.  Mama was going to get that house clean.

But in the evenings she would read to us in a sing-song voice.  She wasn't one for creating silly character voices from the book.  Her voice was soft and consistent, little more than a whisper.  It lulled me to sleep.  As I rested in her arms, I wanted the story to never end.

Then there were her hands on Sunday mornings.  Too old to go to the nursery and too young to follow the sermon, I rested my head on her lap during the church service.  My mama would lift her hand and using her fingertips, lightly stroke my forehead.  Gently from one end to the other, then back again.  I would close my eyes, often falling asleep.  I smelled her perfume, never too strong, soft and feminine.  There were times she would cease her caress and lay her hand on her knee, just in front of my face.  I would study her hand as the pastor continued his long discourse.  Her nails were cut short, her skin like ivory colored tissue paper spread over large purple veins.  Those prominent veins were fascinating to this little girl.  I played with them as I rested on her lap.  I pushed them down and they popped right back up.  I followed the vein's course with one finger.  Maybe if I pushed with several fingers  the vein would stay down?  Despite my best effort, ,y finger tips were too small and there were gaps in the vein's course that remained plump with blood.  I released my tiny fingers and tried again, this time with eight fingers.  Often she would lift her hand from under my play, resuming the gentle movement across my forehead.  Go to sleep.  Settle down.  Back and forth, lightly over my skin, pulling my hair gently back

 

 

This is what I remember - washcloths and orange juice, quiet readings, and gentle touch.  Decades later, when I am weary or sad I long to lay my head down and feel her gentle, repetitive caress.  Settle down.  Go to sleep.  Cease your worry.  Rest here.

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Join me in writing for 5 minutes on the prompt "What Mama Did?"  If you have time, read some of the link-ups and Lisa-Jo's week long guest posts on the prompt, "What Mama Did."  It is encouraging to read through the memories of so many.  God's grace is manifested in time.  With time,  imperfections fade away while LOVE remains.  No mother is perfect but grace, grace, grace - what seems to be remembered is LOVE.