by Carrie Morris How
I went searching for my mother today. She passed away a few months ago—but somehow, I felt I might encounter her here. This turn-of-the-century estate, with its flower gardens and orchards, would have been a place she'd adore.
She is the one who taught me to pay attention to beauty, to keep my eyes open and be willing to stop and savor it. Walking together through our neighborhood or a local park, we would stoop to admire the hundreds of delicate white blossoms forming one lacey parasol-shaped Queen Anne flower. She would exclaim over the perfect, balanced symmetry of a purple pansy—like a technicolor four-leaf clover.
Leaving the snapdragons behind and rounding the corner of this expansive garden, I feel a slow, sweet joy at the sight of the vibrant magentas, tangerines, and taxi yellows of the dahlias here—colors so intense, you can almost taste them. A taffy orange tomcat lounges on warm steps descending from an ornate stone terrace to the lawn below.
Suddenly—through an all-too-brief flash of memory—I see Mom. This memory stands out in stark relief because she wasn’t doing or accomplishing anything… so unlike her. We were at a summer family camp in the mountains. My sisters and I were walking to the craft shack to make bead necklaces when I spotted my mom at the small swimming hole. I almost didn’t recognize her. There she was, floating on an air mattress, ankles crossed and arms behind her head, gazing up at the maples overhead. I remember feeling a little confused to see my industrious mother actually resting.
The sound of fat, black bumble bees gathering nectar from a bush of purple lavender brings me back to the here and now. Their constant, purposeful activity reminds me much more of day-to-day life with my mom. She was employed full-time while raising three girls on her own, so it seemed she was always moving.
And she enjoyed work. She loved seeing something tangible come from her efforts on any given day. When I asked her what she liked about her job as an administrative assistant at a local university, she thought about it then said, “Well, I guess I liked getting to the office and seeing a big stack of work to do on one side of my desk, and the feeling of satisfaction at five o’clock when the pile was on the other side of the desk, all finished.”
***
I saw something crumble in her a few months ago, when her hospice nurse leaned forward, touched her hand, and said, “I’m afraid your heart isn’t up to exercising anymore.”
“Well, I can still go for walks with the walker, right?”
“No, I’m so sorry…” The nurse sat back and waited for this awful reality to sink in. Exercise was one of the last “productive” things my mom had been doing—working to stay as healthy as possible.
A few days later, she looked up from her chair, let out an exasperated sigh, and with tears in her usually stoic eyes, said, “I just don’t know why I’m here! I’m not doing anything! I can’t contribute anything!”
Her belief was apparent: If she couldn’t work, couldn’t make something happen, then her life had little value.
I reached for her small, gnarled hands with their crepe-paper-thin skin and prominent blue veins and said, “Oh, Mom! You are valuable to me just for who you are!” She seemed a little disturbed at this thought, as if she didn’t have a place to hang it. It didn’t fit her concept of herself and her life. Then her shoulders relaxed a bit when I said, “Your presence here with me, Mom—just having time with you—is valuable to me.” This, she understood.
Did she have any worth when floating on the lake at summer camp? Or on those rare occasions when she sat sipping a glass of wine in her garden? And what about when she was stuck in a rocking chair toward the end of her life? Or over her last couple of days, when she lay in bed, unable to open her eyes or speak?
***
She was a work of art, my mom: the particular angle of her brow, like a small A-frame roof hovering over lively, intelligent blue eyes, topped off with a mantle of shining, snow-white hair. Her petite yet strong frame, with legs that loved to skim the dance floor with her husband as people stepped back to admire the smooth spinning top they were. And—even at 92—the keen intellect that frequently won her the modest “kitty” when playing bridge against her younger peers.
Do we expect art to be productive? Does it have to make something happen in order to be considered valuable? Of course not. My mother was a reflection of her Creator—a masterpiece. And as such, her value was constant through all the states and seasons of her life. At work, at rest, and everything in-between.
***
And now, no more laundry, bills, or cleaning for her. No more planning or fretting. No pressure, nothing to prove. I’m hoping she is soaking in the joy of being cherished by God as she rests with Him—the deepest, best rest she has ever known.
Carrie Morris is a writer, speaker, and psychotherapist living in California's Wine Country with two plump dogs and one skinny cat. Most days are spent trying to figure out how to do the working professional, recently widowed, newly single mother life. But amidst these challenges, she sits back and watches God transform her experiences into something beautiful. She writes and speaks about living authentically and healing in the midst of crisis, transition, and grief.
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You painted a beautiful portrait of your mother with your words, Carrie. While I’m sad the loss of her physical presence in your life, you have so many wonderful memories that hope continue to warm your heart forever. 🥰Ginger
Thank you, Carrie, for this piece. My parents are in their 90s and my mom often says she doesn't know why she's still here. She wasn't as productive as your mom (ha-ha), but she is a beautiful work of art. I will share that the next time she questions why she's still here.