So today I’ll tell you some reasons I’ve been grateful for my mom.

She was bright. Smart, yes, but also Lit Up. She shone, can’t you tell? She laughed.

She was a reader. She read everything, it seemed to me. She was in a book club, which I found all so terribly grown up and fascinating. I remember she led a discussion on the book “Follow the River” by James Alexander Thom. It’s the story of a woman who was captured (at age 23, and pregnant) by I can’t remember what kind of Native Americans, and she lived with them for years before she broke away and traveled like a thousand miles to find some semblance of home. At least that’s what I think, since I’ve never read the book. How could I not? I don’t know. I just haven’t. But Mom did. And she took notes in her perfect, careful left-handed cursive in the margins of her paperback. She introduced me to Shel Silverstein and Chaim Potok and Erma Bombeck and L.M. Montgomery. I have distinct kid-memory of sitting in a chair with her and listening to her read aloud recipes from magazines. And the year we moved from Seattle to Boston in a green station wagon with no a/c and (by the time we passed Oregon) no muffler, she read us “Johnny Tremaine,” knowing that we’d soon be smack in the middle of some serious history. (Sometimes an Irish lilt would squeeze out when she read. I don’t know how. She wasn’t Irish. But it was cool. And I blame her for my propensity to read with accents.)

My mom was a trooper. She was sick, all the time. I didn’t really get it, because she was the only mom I’d had. I just figured that moms went to hospitals for a week or so every year. Just normal, right? But do you know what? She made it to every football game, every basketball game, every play, every concert. Even the middle school band. Bless her. She got up in the mornings and made hot breakfast. (I found out later that many, many days she went back to bed after we left the house.)

My mom was a musician and an artist. She liked to draw, and I have a few precious pictures she did for classes or whatever, that she chose to keep. I have stacks, stacks of music that used to be hers. I can’t play the piano more than one note at a time, but I love this music. She had classical stuff and Broadway stuff (her “Funny Girl” is falling apart at the spine) and horrible practicing books like Hanon. She taught piano lessons for years. Tried to teach me, but I must have been unteachable. She taught other people, though, and when she died, a bunch of her piano students bought a beautiful framed poster that now hangs over my younger brother’s piano. It says, “Bach gave us God’s Word. Mozart gave us God’s Laughter. Beethoven gave us God’s Fire. God gave us Music that we might pray without words.” (It’s from a German opera house. Those Germans know how to be proud of their own. I love that about them.) She had long, pretty fingernails that would hit the keys just before the note played, so everything was in a syncopation if you sat close enough to her hands to hear the percussion parts.

My mom was an only child. She loved her mama and Nana and the aunts and uncles and cousins. When we lived far away from Grandma, my mom was on the phone with her at least once a week. (I so distinctly remember the conversations that would start, “Of course everything’s all right, Mom. I’m sorry you were worried. You can bet that if something’s wrong, I’ll call right away.”)

(That’s not her mom. That’s my dad’s stepmom, my Grammy. She was a diva. Totally. You’d have loved her too. Chocolate-coated, my Grammy was. Beside Grammy is Older Brother, who visits here as OmaHeck, then Mom holding me, and skinny, skinny beatnick Dad.)

My mom was a singer, too. She loved to sing. We had a singing house. And a singing car. We sang all the time. Not too long before her death, she grew some sort of something on her vocal cord and her singing was diminished. I bet that was a painful loss for both her and my dad. She loved Barbara Streisand. I knew every word to every song Babs ever recorded, because Mom and I would sing them all. Once, Babs recorded “Over the Rainbow” with Judy Garland, and that one can still bring tears to my eyes. She loved to do shows. She was a staple in the community theatre and encouraged me to get in it with her.

She was a cook. Mmm. And a chucker. That’s my word for it, anyway — it’s the way I do my cooking: Chuck it in if it smells right. She made the world’s best spaghetti sauce. And (I think I’ve told you this before) neighbor kids would come over and fill up cups with the sauce and eat it with spoons. She actually wrote down the “recipe” for that one, but it’s never tasted the same when anyone else made it. Once she burned pork chops. In the microwave. I think it’s best if we didn’t get any more detailed than that. She bottled and canned and juiced and made fruit leather. I so wish I’d learned fruit leather from her. But it wasn’t a 15-year-old priority to make it, just to eat it. She taught me how to cook, how to chuck, and how to feed people with food and with love. I have not taught my Kids that. I don’t want them to be okay without me. Yes, I am aware that is wrong, and twisted, and a little sick. Thank you for asking.

My mom was a teacher. The kind that taught us, at home. And the kind that found things that needed teaching and went ahead and taught them. She was “the Picture Lady” at our elementary school. She’d bring in a poster-print of a famous artist once a month or so and teach us redneck kids about Van Gogh, Manet, Picasso, Cassatt, Monet, Chagall, Gaugin, and Rembrandt. And more. Lots more. She never thought we were learning quite enough in school. So she’d give us more, after school. And she’d march into the principal’s office, all 5’1″ of her, and Demand Stuff. She taught those nuns what it was to fear the wrath of this little Mormon Mommy. When I get demanding at school and possibly ball up my fists onto my hips, I smile. Channeling the Mom is such a good thing.

I’d hate to give you the wrong impression here. She wasn’t perfect. She never made just the right amount of rice for dinner. Too much or too little, always. She burned pork chops, remember? She didn’t quite know what to do with a moody-emotional teenage girl. Drama was a mystery. She lost her temper (but not as often as she deserved to). All of which combined to make her REAL.

I wish you could have known her. I wish Husband could have known her. I wish, so much, that my Kids could have known her. (Here’s why)

But mostly, today, I’m grateful that I could know her. That I could learn from her, and on a good day, that I could find her, here, inside me.

I inherited a lot of traits from my dad, including but not limited to freakish memory, long phone calls, and a love for cheese and red meat. But I didn’t get the green thumb. Which occasionally makes me sad. I try. Often. I spend way more money on plants and gardeny stuff than I ever save on actual edible produce. (*boo*)

This year I let myself off the hook. I didn’t plant anything. In fact, in that spirit of honesty, I’ll tell you that I haven’t actually managed to weed out the garden yet. But. I have a couple of volunteers. We’re eating a lot of chives, because they come back. Over and over. Yea! And their flowers are so beauteous. We’re using chives where normally we’d use green onions and everyone’s pretty glad about it. Also, the lettuces I planted last spring, but they never grew? Remember those? Surprise! They’re coming up now. So hooray for the surprise benefits.

Yesterday at church, Brother Bob asked us if we wanted any spinach. Um, hello? I guess, yes. So we went over there and he cut off a bunch of gorgeous greenies, and I ooh-ed and aah-ed over his growing things, and he also whacked off a bunch of rhubarb for us. I told him to leave the leaves on, because I had to go all Miss America pageanty and wave to the Kids while holding this incredible bouquet of rhubarb. We went home thinking how grateful we were that we could reap the benefits of someone else’s work. Thanks, Brother Bob.

So this morning I made a pie. A strawberry-rhubarb pie. I haven’t had one of those in at least 25 years. And it made me miss my mom like very few things do these days. I don’t know if my mom loved-loved strawberry-rhubarb pie, but she made it, and I ate it with her. She would have been proud of my pastry today, you know. It was a thing of beauty, if I do say so myself. We just cut into the pie, and only Kid 1 ate her whole piece (well, I did, too), and she laughed and said, “Well, Mom, you and I can eat this pie.” And my heart was happy-sad and I wished again that Mom was here to know my Kids. Because she’d think they’re delightful, I guarantee it. She’d crack up at Kid 3′s sense of humor. She’d be jealous of her hair, too. She’d swoon over Kid 2′s Vivaldi abilities. And she’d snuggle up with her in a blanket on the couch. She’d answer all of Kid 4′s questions, even when she knew he was only asking to keep her talking. She’d practice his duets with him, too, because she had the skills to do that thing. She’d hold her own hands together over her heart (that physical manifestation of *squee*) when she saw Kid 1 sing on stage, I know it. She’d practice songs with her, and help her work through tricky harmonies. And she’d pretend to be amazed at all the kid-ly braininess, when really, she’d pretty much expect it.

And every day, when I work on this Mom business, and sing songs to my kids, and read them books (with the voices)and bite my tongue when the unkind/impatient/snarky remark wants to escape, and when I say, “B-flat, b-flat,” and cook meals every day, I’m reaping the rewards of her seed-planting. Thanks, Mom.

Sleeping until seven every morning.

(Except I didn’t quite make it.)

Yep. That’s it. Big dreams, that’s what we’re made of around here.

Want to hear about my Big Date with Husband on Saturday? I thought so. We went to see a play. A musical. (I know. Husband of the Year. Again.) It was an adaptation of A Tale of Two Cities, which is my favorite Dickens novel (what’s yours?). I have me a little crush on the drunken lout Sydney C. What can I say? It’s my weakness for redemption figures. And he was wonderful in this show. The show played on Broadway for a while, then sort of did the Broadway equivalent of going out of print. (Poor little writer.) But it’s been “recalled to life” (get it?) in a run at Salt Lake City’s Hale Center Theatre. The writer/composer Jill Santorelli was there at the performance, sitting in the tech booth (she got an intro and a large ovation), and I wish that I could have gone over and given her a squeeze. But by the time the show ended, I was melted into a sobby puddle (yes, really) and I just sniffled my way to the car. If you care to get your hands on a terrifically moving and powerful song, find Madame LeFarge’s “Out of Sight, Out of Mind.” I wanted to take that woman home with me and reform her (and let her sing at me all day) – she was spectacular. My mom would have loved it. I’m sorry to tell you that  Saturday was closing night. I wish I’d seen the show at the beginning of the run, so everyone who lives within a couple hundred miles could have heeded my invitation and seen it.

It was good, okay?

Then yesterday! Yesterday, our cute friends-who-were-neighbors came for a visit. We ate yumminess and talked for several hours and giggled at their cute children and had pie. Don’t you love reconnecting with friends? Especially the kind who want to move back close? And eat together again and again? And also, pie? Me, too.

WRITING ACCOUNTABILITY TIME: I got more than 1,000 words in this morning before I had to be all done (read: Husband and Kids wanted to TALK to me). I liked my scene. I hope you will, too. Someday.

The sun is sparkling on the new mountain snow. I have crocuses, and tulips are coming. Nobody goes to school for five whole days. Remember that I love spring? I remember.

I know. Stunning, right?

Wow. You probably weren’t planning to see THAT this morning. But here it is – a page out of my long-repressed history.

I have an uncle – a really wonderful one – who is an historian. (He’d have me put the “an” in there, I bet. So I did.) He is a pro family history guy. And he sent me the remarkable photo you see before you. And I swore. (Not like that.) I mean, I promised. That I will never, never tease a kid about her glasses (can you see the fine, fine rose decal in the corner? I remember pondering over the merits of rose vs. ladybug in the eye doctor’s sitting room, but somehow I never pondered the ill-advised glasses frames). And I will lay off my Kids about their hair issues, because, honestly? Has any Kid in my house ever had hair issues like these? I think not. The clip? I made that with my mom. I remember her patience in teaching me to weave that skinny ribbon through the bendy clip (the only kind that would stay in the aforementioned skinny hair). There were matching plastic beads on the ends of those ribbons. They made clicking sounds every time (Every Time) I tossed my head. Those teeth somehow pulled through, and I never needed orthodontia (blessing, that). And can you see my birthmark? It’s much harder to see these days. In the photo, it’s on the right side of my neck, kind of below that adorable cheek curl (because I can admit, those were some great smile lines and perfect, sweet cheeks). The birthmark that seriously marked me, in physical and emotional ways. Because, hey! Look! It’s a HICKEY!

Which of course it was not.

Ever.

But it didn’t stop people from double-taking. I remember being a small person, 7 years old (I only remember that detail because I know I was in D’Agostino’s deli in my Boston neighborhood, and I only lived there for that second grade year) and having a woman stare, leaning over to make sure she was really seeing a little girl with a great big hickey on her neck. I smiled at her. She looked horrified.

I dealt with it.

And everyone wore turtlenecks in the 80s.

It became a different story in high school. T. D. who was a senior when I was a freshman, called me Hickey Woman (which was a combination of thrilling and embarrassing, since he bore a passing resemblance to Tom Cruise, and was the star of the football team, and noticed my existence enough to use the word “woman” to describe me… but also, “hickey”). Then, a few years later, in a different state but still in the world of high school, I was sort of dating R. We had fun. He was hilarious and carefree and charming and had a whole houseful of adorable younger brothers that looked just like him. Then I met his mom. She took one look at my neck and decided that I was a WOB* who was corrupting her son, and he’d better get out of this thing if he wanted a roof over his head and access to the thrashed black VW Bug. To defend both his honor and mine, I feel compelled to tell you that R. never even kissed me, much less… well, anything else. And our dating thing didn’t last many more days (but we’re still Christmas-card friends).

The birthmark continues to fade. Most people can’t even see it. (They’re distracted by my stunning, straight teeth. I know it.) But strangely, I still feel like the birth-marked girl. It’s become part of my identity and that is just weird. Because it’s not really physically there anymore. At least to the casual observer. I’m sure there’s a deep insight floating here, something that ties this post into building a character in a novel. But I’m not interested in depth today. Just interested in strolling down memory (amnesia) lane with the rest of the photos I received from the Historian Uncle.

And possibly doing my hair.

* WOB = Whore of Babylon. I know. It’s another Brother Thing.

Because he stopped and because he looked, the Lord spoke to Moses out of the bush. He called him by his name, because that’s what the Lord does, and he asked Moses to take off his shoes. “Put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground.”

The poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning said:

Earth’s crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God;
And only he who sees takes off his shoes;
The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.

How do I become the one who sees? Can I figure out when the presence of God is near, when I’m on Holy Ground, and remove my shoes? How can I find the divine in the drudgery?

When my kids were little, needy and demanding and helpless, I’m afraid my first reaction to a burning bush would be to toss a bucket of water on it. One more emergency to deal with. One more demand on my time and sanity.

When they were bigger, I think my reaction would be different. All right you people. Who has been playing with matches? You know the rules. You’re all busted.

Some days, don’t you feel too tired to care? After work and dinner and cleaning and dishes and homework and dentist appointments and practices and laundry and family night and concerts and presidency meetings and emergency room visits and games and meets and matches and scripture study, could you (like I could) look over your shoulder as you flop onto the couch and say, “Huh. That bush is on fire. Hope it doesn’t singe the furniture. Pass the remote.”

And when the kids are grown and gone, are there times we peek under beds and search out fingerprinty windows, desperate to regain a tiny portion of that sweet innocence, only to ignore the flaming bush in the middle of the room?

The Lord wants us to recognize the “great sight” in our path. He rewarded Moses for turning aside, seeking out the miracle. We will also be rewarded for seeking out the miracles.

There are plenty of barefoot moments in motherhood. Some of them are messy, some of them are funny; some are precious and sweet and sacred. All these moments testify that God is near.

Do you remember the first time you took your fussy baby out of church and walked the halls, muttering about why am I doing this? I’m getting nothing out of these meetings, and we’re disturbing everyone within a fifty-foot radius only to have that little person hang over your shoulder, lean behind you, point to a painting of the Savior and say “Jesus.” Remember that you didn’t even think that child knew that word? Remove thy shoes.

Remember the time you came downstairs because you heard someone crying? Grumble, grumble – these kids are always fighting. I’ll give them something to cry about. Here you come, ready to dispense justice, and find your youngest cradled in the arms of an older sibling who’s kissing away the hurt and coaxing a smile and a laugh from behind the tears. Take thy shoes from off thy feet.

Remember that one time – that one time – you got that note, that email, that text that said, “Thank you, Mom”? Remove thy shoes.

And watch them, as adults, choose each other as best friends. See them seeking out each others’ company. Listen to them laugh together, remembering the happy times that are buried somewhere in your memory, under piles of muddy shoes and broken dishes and dents in cars and angry words. The memories are there. Take thy shoes from off thy feet.

We can train our eyes to see the “bush afire with God” – to notice the things that could not be, without the influence of the Lord. If I want that gift, that ability, I only need to ask for it, to work for it. To write it down when I see it.

And when we stop, and remove our shoes from off our feet, we can hear the Lord call us by name and remind us that the place we stand is holy ground, the position we hold is ordained of God, the people we nurture are really His children.

(*I wrote this last year for a Mother’s Day weekend event. Since maybe three people read my blog last year, I’m willing to risk a rerun.)

But that’s okay. It IS. Because submitting by the calendar is a great idea, but only if your work is ready. Which mine is not. If I were a baker, my work would still be dough. Were I a tailor, there would be no hems, and my dress full of pins. A filmmaker? Lots of footage, but far, far from locked picture.

Sorry. I know. It’s been a long time.

And there was stress here this weekend. And also strep. Not me, though. I’m still in voice for OPENING WEEK of JOSEPH. I know. I was really concerned last week, seeing as we had not actually learned all the songs and dances. (Not so worried about the songs. I know the songs. Dancing? Not my forte. Really. Stop laughing, brothers who read my blog. See? They know.) But we’re costumed (basically) and ready around here, so bring on opening night. (That’s Thursday. If I suddenly drop off the face of the blogosphere, you’ll know why.)

Does anyone else wonder why the word “strep” comes up misspelled, but “blogosphere” is fine? Yeah. Me, too.

On the literary front (stop laughing, brothers. I mean it.) MRRO is getting fun reviews and lots of blog-time. There’s another week to enter to win a copy over at Bloggin’ ‘Bout Books, so go get signed up. Or don’t. But it’s only fair if I tell you all about it.

Also, it was my little brother’s birthday yesterday, and I forgot to call. Is he still my little brother if he turned 34? Yup. And do you want to hear a cute thing from my kidhood? Here it is: His birthday, like I just told you, was March 14th. And my half-birthday was (and is) March 15th. And seeing as at the point in my kidhood we are discussing, there were only 3 kids in our family (as opposed to the 10 that we had a little later), there was always half a birthday cake left over for my half-birthday. And my Mom always made just enough of a big deal about it that I was pretty sure that I was special. I know, right? She was pretty awesome.

So happy half birthday to me. Now I must go and practice that one part I always mess up. Yes. THAT one.

Bye!