Browsing Category


Blog, Communication, Emotions, Family, Grief, Living through heartache, Love, Parenting, Resurrection, Walking by Faith

I Miss You, Mom

May 6, 2011
Cynthia and Alma Jo Thomas

Cynthia with her mother

Mom, I’ve been thinking of you. Today as I cleaned up your house, I picked up a bag of things to go through, and I found a graying box with a rubber band around it. When I opened it, there sat a little green book, “The Story of Our Baby.”  It made me smile.

Tears began to flow as I flipped through and let myself remember. You kept cards from my first birthday, the tag I wore in the hospital, and a cutting of my hair. You carefully listed my height and weight each time I went to the doctor.

The first tooth I lost was carefully taped on one page, and you recounted the story. I recall that day. I’d been running too fast at a friend’s house, and I slammed into my playmate. My mouth hit her forehead. Blood went everywhere. I didn’t know teeth fell out, so I was terrified. That was one occasion when a kiss didn’t make it stop hurting. But you stayed with me, and kept cold rags on my mouth until it felt better.

On a page labeled “Mother’s Notes” you wrote, “A mother has really missed something in life if she doesn’t have a little girl.  She is as stubborn as an ox, but as sweet as a little lamb.  Feb. 1958.”

Yes, that sounds like you. I know it’s true. There was a tug-of-war between us sometimes.  How many times I heard you say, “If I ever get you kids grown, I won’t have sense enough to come in out of the rain.” I never understood what that meant, but then I had my own kids.  Parenting is hard. Now I wish I hadn’t been quite so stubborn, Mom.

You listed my fancy outfits for special occasions, my first Christmas, my first birthday. How many hours did you labor over my pretty dresses? I can still see you with a thimble on your middle finger, and a needle in the other hand stitching lace around hemlines, collars, or sleeves. You tried to see how much lace you could get on one dress, and I loved it. It must have been tedious work, but you never seemed to mind.

My brother and I visited your grave this week after taking care of Dad’s business. I expected to see a nice carpet of grass, but it hasn’t been long enough for grass to grow. The bare dirt felt like a scab on a fresh injury. Yes, we buried you and Dad together, just as you wanted. And one day you and dad are going to pop out of that grave with smiles on your faces.

Until then, Mom, you’ll be gazing at the glory of Jesus. It’s Mother’s Day, and I want you to know I didn’t forget. I love you.

Blog, Communication, Emotions, Family, Grief, Leaving a legacy, Living through heartache, Love, Parenting, Resurrection, Walking by Faith

Good-by Mom,I Love you!

June 30, 2009
Cynthia's Mom

Alma Jo Thomas

Mother, my mind is full of your words. I can even hear your voice in my head.

“You must brush your teeth after every meal.”

“Make up your bed!”

“You left wrinkles in the bedspread. Pull this way to get them out.”

“Just be sweet.  You’ll have friends.”

“Clean your plate. You know, kids in Africa wish they had food.”

You told me about the photographer who specialized in children’s pictures. With a twinkle in your eye you said, “He picked out the little girl with curly hair. I told him she was mine.”

Whenever I sang in children’s choir you’d say, “I saw you the moment I walked in. I saw my little girl up there. You were in the third row.

As I got older, you scolded less. You saw my maturity. I succeed in academics, and you knew you could depend on me.  Once in high school, I had a cold and asked to go home early. The secretary thought I was malingering. You set her straight. “If Cindy says she’s sick, believe her!”

Ray asked permission to marry me, and you said. “Have you prayed about it?”

You liked Ray and told Dad, “Honey, Ray’s a perfect gentleman.”

When Charity came I remember the joy in your face as you held your first grandchild. I watched you care for her and could see your love.  When you held Joy in your arms, you said, “Cindy, I feel like I’m holding you again.”

You didn’t need to say words—I could see your love.  Making their fancy dresses took hours.  (Did you think of the dresses you made me while you sewed?) Each birthday, each Christmas you made sure your gifts for each child were appropriate. And you prayed for me. Your friends told me that you always listed my prayer requests at Wednesday night prayer group.

“Let’s get going!” Your foot pressed the accelerator of life—until illness ceased the constant motion. That last December, you wanted to sit in the doorway of the kitchen while I decorated Joy’s birthday cake.  I knew you just wanted to be close, and I liked that.

The day before your seventy-sixth birthday, I visited you in the hospital. I dressed you in a frilly pink nightgown. You said, “I’ll look at it tomorrow.”

I understood. You wanted to look nice after all those hospital gowns, but your eyes were dim. They could no longer see or perceive.

We held hands and sang. You didn’t realize it, but I had to leave the room a couple of times. Charity kept singing so you wouldn’t notice.  I didn’t want my dying mother to know I was crying.

I hated to leave because I knew I wouldn’t see you again here.  But the long drive home loomed before me, and I had to go. “Bye, Mom. I love you.”

“I ove you,” you replied.
I understood you couldn’t enunciate, but I heard the love you expressed.


Bye, Mom. I’ll see you in heaven.


Get every new post delivered to your inbox
Join our list of followers
Powered By