Mom's Kitchen Window

Caring awhile for my seventy-something, physically challenged mother nearly a decade ago came to a delightfully unexpected end. 

I had been one of those people who wrote constantly in my head but couldn't seem to finish anything on paper.  One day I briefly shared with Mom my need for some kind of writer's kick-in-the-pants; we didn't talk about this again, but after her visit she sent me a copy of "Chicken Soup for the Writer's Soul".  It did the trick, motivating and inspiring me like nothing had before.  This surprise effort on her part helped form a new and very real connection between us. 

Mom had told me she once longed to be a journalist but I was a little girl then, too young to ask the right questions.  I grew up seeing old snapshots of Mom  posing for her young GI husband; they showed dreamy eyes bravely masking her sadness.  Now I think they also reveal acceptance of another absence in her life.  She felt the unstoppable need to write, yet words burning on the inside of her had not yet fanned into flame.

My mother bore four kids in seven years after Dad's return from the war.  Going against all her early declarations, she found herself living the life of a farmer's wife.  Along with my uncle and aunt, my folks eventually bought 1400 demanding acres.  The farm was ten miles from the nearest town and worlds away from the city Mom had once called home.  She worked hard raising kids, chickens and a garden, and she put in lots of hours alongside Dad in fields of corn, wheat and soybeans.  Needless to say, she had no time in those days to pursue personal dreams.

In and of itself, the aging farmhouse in which I grew up was certainly not a retreat for thoughtful creativity.  Standing high on a hill and in need of a serious makeover, its only claim to beauty at that time was the grand view in every direction.  The one to the northwest seemed to be my mother's favorite, framed by the window above her sink in the cramped old kitchen.  Constantly confronted with dishes to be washed or potatoes to be peeled, she could look out and see a hill higher than the one where the house sat. Its peak was a gently rounded clearing with trees balancing both sides, creating a perfect scene.  Sometimes our cattle were peacefully grazing there.  Heavy snowfalls viewed through the window ushered in much-needed stillness.  Mom always got excited over sunsets; with obvious wonder she would call our attention to vivid displays of purple and red put there by the Master Designer Himself.  Countless hours passed as she faced that kitchen window, working with her hands.  And, I am sure - inspired by the majesty of the view and the calling within - her mind was working too, taking creative and passionate thoughts and turning them into sentences waiting to be recorded.

Did she ache to write to other young mothers, encouraging them to rely on the One who never lets his children down?  As she watched a flock of geese overhead or saw a timid deer come into view, did poetry rise up on the inside?  Always the romantic, did Mom compose tender, pure love stories (with happy endings of course)? 

Just imagine if that window could have somehow read her mind and talked!

At some point as we little chicks started thinning out of the nest, Mom had more time to herself and began pounding out sentences on her beloved manual typewriter.  She gave me some of her pieces recently.  Like too many of mine, most were unfinished and never shared with anyone.  But she was faithfully putting thoughts on paper that turned into treasures I'm proud to have, evidence of a common bond between us.

When Mom sent "Chicken Soup for the Writer's Soul" to me those years ago, she once again met a need in this child of hers.  It was as if she took me to her kitchen window and said, "Look out there.  See the beautiful handiwork of God and quiet yourself.  His gifts are not to be selfishly absorbed; they're a resource for giving, so get busy doing what you're supposed to do."

Thanks, Mom, for sharing the view.