Grateful to Mom

 

The wind whines through any gap it can find, lonely and longing. Occasional cohorts of driven snowflakes pulse in waves across the field. It must be January.

Inside, I finish off the summary of last year in financial figures, and sigh. Not my favourite job. It must be January.

Christmas tree and all the merry decorations came down yesterday, a few days early I know. It must be January.

Now, I prepare to look ahead. The diary is empty, inviting creative thinking and optimistic plans. I am content to know that though I may make some plans, everything is in the hand of the Lord. That is a comforting, encouraging thought.

When I spoke to Mom last night, I expected her to be a bit down-hearted and confused. Once again, Covid rages through the staff and all residents are confined to their rooms 24-7. Not at all pleasant at any age, but especially when horizons are already curtailed.

Can’t remember how old I am, she laughed, but I must be near 100. Am I? Yes, another couple of years, I said. She reminisced about Dad, who would have been 99 on the 2^nd, and admitted how much she misses his company, his laughter. Looking forward to being with him again, she sighed, but meanwhile, I’m in God’s hands.

Even in the January of life, when cold winds howl and blizzards threaten, she knows that spring is just around the corner. Grateful for all I am still learning from my dear Mom.