The Gift of Life
Mother’s Day dawns. I feel anticipation as I stretch and welcome the day. From my window, the morning looks dewy and clouded. I dress quickly in warm pants, two layers of sweatshirts, and my bright pink mud-boots, and quietly slip out the door.
This has become my tradition. I feel memories of my mom come flooding in, and I embrace them dearly. As I stroll through the quiet morning to my flowerbed, I reflect:
It was nine years ago now. My daughter Lana just turned nine in April, so it’s easy to keep track of the conception of this tradition. I spent that winter and spring in bed and on the couch. I was having premature labor, so my doctor prescribed strict bed-rest. My little toddler boy needed care, and I was unable to do it. My mom came and spent the most of two months with us that winter. At one point she went home to be with my Dad for a break, and then returned to us by train 450 miles. She came bearing two planters with dirt and a few green shoots. “I’m forcing these bulbs, and I thought maybe they would bloom while I’m still here.” she said. In my state of boredom and anxiety, these bulbs were a bright spot. Mom and I watched them together. I don’t recall exactly when they bloomed. Perhaps they were eclipsed by the birth of my beautiful baby daughter who was born healthy, just one month early. Dad came to take Mom home after Lana was born. She chose to leave the planters and bulbs.
Sometime that summer or fall, I must have found time to plant those bulbs in my flower garden. Gardening moments were few that summer, with a two-year old and a baby.
Mom had been in treatment for breast cancer during her time here. She had been diagnosed with stage three cancer six years earlier, and had been through treatments of different kinds. Moments were precious.
Mom passed away in the fall three and a half years later. The following spring, as the sun warmed the frozen ground and little signs of life emerged, I didn’t know there was a gift hidden there. The forgotten bulbs had finally matured enough after their transplanting four years earlier. By Mother’s Day, several beautiful tulips and a drift of grape hyacinths were blooming. These were coupled with pansies grown from seeds she shared with me. That first year, I didn’t dare pick the flowers for fear that I’d damage the bulbs somehow and lose them. The ache in my heart was deep and lone. The second year, as I went out to cut my first Mother’s Day bouquet, the tears flowed freely. I took pictures of the flowers and sent them to my brothers and my dad with the story. I felt close to Mom somehow, and just wanted to share it.
Today the tears have been replaced with warmth in my heart and a feeling of overwhelming thankfulness. My mother cared for me enough to spend two months of her precious moments with me and my family. She took care of us so my daughter would be born healthy and full-term. That gift lives on in the life of my precious daughter. And the simple gift of flowers comes every year at Mother’s Day. As I cut the stems of my tulips from Mom today, I rejoice in the gift of life that keeps on giving and keeps on growing.
5/2012 Note: I wrote this story two years ago. Sadly, last fall a voracious pocket gopher ruined the flowerbed that these precious bulbs were in. Today, I finally got out there to uncover some of the damage. I found just a few thin tulip leaves poking up along with a few hardy grape hyacinths. Perhaps if I give it some more TLC, in another three years or so, they'll bloom again!?
Happy Mother's Day to each of you Mothers. Some of you have lost your mothers like me. You would understand the bittersweet of this day.
