It was the last day of school before Christmas vacation, and the afternoon dragged on as I watched the snow blanket the playground. As a fifth grader, I was counting the minutes until we were loosed from school and could begin the official countdown until Christmas.

At the final bell, my sisters and I bundled up for the five-minute walk home. By the time we reached the back door, snowflakes clung to our our eyelashes, and our mittens were damp. My mom was waiting for us in the kitchen as we unbuttoned, unbooted, shaking wet snow from our coats. I know it isn’t Christmas yet, but I have an early present for you girls. Come with me. 

We followed my mom into her sewing room and there it was in the corner: a two-story Barbie house that my mom had lovingly crafted from cardboard boxes and furnished with velvet-covered tin-can chairs, cereal box bed, and real curtains. It was magnificent! Speechless, we gathered around the house to take in every room and accessory.

For as long as I can remember, my mom has worked miracles on a limited budget. Barbie houses, prom dresses, bedroom makeovers came to life through my mom’s vision and skills. She learned to upholster and to refinish furniture, to decorate our home for every holiday with pieces she made in ceramics and to make sure that we had special clothes for special occasions. From my mom, I learned to shop at garage sales and thrift shops before this became fashionable. Under her tutelage, I learned what I would need to know when, years later, I would attempt to work miracles on a limited budget for my own family,

More than things, however, my mom created events. Friday nights were hamburgers and chips on TV trays and one glorious hour of Lost in Space. Sunday afternoons might find us driving country roads, scavenging old door knobs from abandoned farm houses and searching the ditches for milkweed pods and cattails. And then there were the old-shirt-it’s-time days. When my dad’s shirts became worn enough that my mom was never going to let my dad be seen wearing them in public, she gave us the go-ahead to literally rip the shirt off my dad’s body. As he feigned surprise and gave half-hearted attempts to evade us, we ran and ripped, ripped and ran. Until ribbons of plaid sport shirt hung from my dad’s shoulders. Until, squealed out, we lay breathless in the grass clutching fistfuls of fabric as trophies.

And on 4th of July? She created THE event of the summer. With coolers of eggs, bacon, and juice and boxes of donuts, we made the annual trip to Ft. Kearney Recreation Area for breakfast on the beach and swimming after. As years went by, neighbors, college friends, and assorted other guests attended the annual event. Eggs never tasted so good as they did on these mornings. Our fingers sticky from glazed donuts and sunscreen, we washed them in the swimming area and stretched out on our towels in the mid-morning sun. As kids, we never gave a second thought to the fact that as we were sunbathing, swimming and making sandcastles, my mom was cleaning the skillets, cleaning up the picnic site, and packing the remaining food in our coolers. We never once considered the planning, the packing, the preparing that made our 4th of July at Ft. Kearney a splendid reality, year after year. We had a mom who would put most event planners to shame.

Best of all, though, my mom created sanctuaries. In my sleepless hours of adolescence, my mom’s constant presence and assurance became a sanctuary I retreated to night after night.  I love the photo above because years before she would accompany me to high school track meets, it reveals the mom who would brave wind and sleet to sit for hours in the bleachers as one of very few spectators. In this photo, she wears a hooded coat at a college football game, but during track season, she wore a black garbage bag over her coat to protect herself and the entire team’s stash of snacks. When races did not go well, when you needed warm hands to rub out the cold, my mom was a sanctuary of comfort. As I grew and moved to different cities and states, I depended upon the sanctuary of my mom’s voice over the phone lines that spanned the miles between my mom and me. Even now in the moments before I sleep, it is this voice that sends me into the sanctuary of dream.

In the Sanctuary of my Mom, you will never go without. Before you realize you need something–a word of affirmation or guidance, a new coat or set of dishes–she has anticipated just what you need and presents it as if it is no big deal. I have lived a life of plenty, for I have never gone without my mom’s unfailing love and support. And this a a very big deal, indeed.

I have always wanted to grow up to be just like my mom. For my entire life, I have watched my mom advocate for those in need of help, befriend those who need a genuine friend, and open her house to countless visitors who need a place to stay. Gathered around my family dining room table, I am certain that these individuals can’t imagine a place they’d rather be. Truthfully, I can’t imagine a place I’d rather be than seated at this table with a great piece of pie and the promise of hours of conversation with my mom.

My siblings and I are remarkably blessed to live in the sanctuary of such a mother. In this sanctuary, I propose that every day should be Mother’s Day. Not the Hallmark, FTD kind of Mother’s Day, but the real deal complete with phone calling, letter writing, and visiting. Sentimental verse and flowers are sweet, but our own words and presence are so much sweeter. How do I know this? I learned this–and so much more–from my mother.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom–today and always.