Ten years ago this week, we suddenly lost my mom.  She was 62. In some ways it seems like a lifetime ago, and in many other ways I can’t believe it’s been that long – I feel her influence in so many areas of my life.

Mom was born in 1938  in a quaint little Dutch town where everyone has crocheted curtains in their windows and tulips in the flowerbeds below. She was born the second youngest of 11 children. This is a picture I’ve posted here before:

Mom didn’t talk about her childhood much, but I was intrigued by the little she did share. For example, when she was a schoolgirl, she had a pet crow that sat on her shoulder as she walked to school and met her again when school let out.

During the world war, her family hid a Jewish family in their home, and Mom told me how every day her mother (who I never met) cooked a massive pot of potatoes for her family of 13 plus the members of the extra family. She must have been peeling potatoes all morning!

Mom said she loved people and animals even as a kid. I’m sure she was a “helper”. When she graduated from high school she went to nursing school and got a job as a nurse in pediatrics.

In 1966 she and Dad got married, and not long after, they packed up their furniture and other belongings into crates, and travelled across the Atlantic to their land of dreams … Canada. Dad built a beautiful home on a lot full of massive shady maples, they began to pick up some English, and started a family. Mum immersed herself in mothering.

The family grew to include three girls and two boys.When I was nine years old, my parents bought a fruit farm, and we moved into a small wooden farmhouse that was over a century old.  We worked so hard! I can’t eat strawberries or beans without thinking of the times we were hoeing (and hoeing and hoeing), and pulling weeds in the hot summers. We were both so intolerant to heat! In the springtime I enjoyed helping her choose annuals and planting them in the flowerbeds around the house. It seemed there was always work to be done, inside the house and out. As a pre-teen, all I wanted to do was sit in my room, write in my diary, and listen to music. But there was always so much work to do! When they sold the farm, I asked Mom if she missed it, and I was surprised when she told me that they bought the farm solely for the sake of the kids… to teach us how to work hard, to be responsible, and of course, to keep us busy and out of trouble.

When I was about three or four, while my sister was at school during the day, Mom and I would cuddle for a nap in her bed every afternoon. I remember so clearly always lying there, eyes wide open, not wanting to sleep. “Mummy, can we talk first?” “Yes Brenda, what shall we talk about today?” “Let’s talk about the poor people.” Always… always… always… I wanted to talk about “the poor people.” Mom was very careful to tell us how blessed we were as kids, and how there were children in faraway places like Bangladesh who had no moms or dads, and often no food to eat. We were intrigued by her stories, and wanted to help them. She and Dad sponsored several children through World Vision over the years, and I’m sure she really wanted to raise kids who wanted to help others. I was only four years old when we had those intimate moments of chatting during nap time, and already Mom was planting seeds that sprouted and whose vines have invaded every part of my body. I do have her heart.

She was stricter than the mothers of all my friends, and as a teen I was so conscious of  that. No movies. No dances. No drinking. No rock music. No make-up. No “acid-washed jeans”. No dark nylons. No short skirts or tight tops. TV was limited to sports, news, wildlife programs and Little House on the Prairie. Mom disciplined us hard and trained us hard too. When we mouthed back to her, we had to write hundreds and hundreds of lines:  “I will not talk back”.  At the dinner table she put a strong wooden ruler next to her plate, for easy access if she needed to smack grabby hands. She gave us each household chores and saw that we did them promptly and thoroughly.  Mom was thrifty, too! McDonald’s was for birthdays only. Pop was for very special occasions, and cookies were almost always made, not bought. Our lunchbox snacks were raisins or carrots,  instead of Cheesies or Twinkies. Her rules were unreasonable by my standards, and her expectations infuriated me often.

In retrospect, however, I’m so grateful for the example she and my Dad set. I appreciate all the sacrifices she made. I wonder how many things she would have liked to have, but gave up for our sake (not least of all, her career). Because of those sacrifices, there was money for private school, piano and swimming lessons, trips to Holland, and summer vacations.

I once asked her if she ever tired of cooking for all of us day after day after day. And she said, “Every time I peel a potato (we ate potatoes every day, like true Dutchies),  I feel grateful for a family to feed and grateful for food to feed them.” She never complained about being a mom… even though I know we (well some of us) were difficult often. She taught us to be thankful for everything and to express thanks too. She taught us to look out for needs of others, and to do what was right. I often hear her words ringing in my ears, “If you’re doing what’s right, why do you care what others think?”. To my adolescent ears, those words made no sense. Of course I care what others think! But as an adult I find myself repeating those words to myself and anyone who will listen.

Mom worked hard at keeping us busy and creative. The craft drawers were always stocked with paper, paint, glue, and tape. There were popsicle sticks, buttons, foam, alphabet pasta and felt.We painted, coloured, and created. She cherished and kept every little card and macaroni craft we made for her, and never threw out our school notebooks. I now have all the stuff that I made which she kept.

She sewed little nurse uniforms for my older sister and me. She transformed our whole basement into a pretend grocery store complete with a homemade cash register, and aisles stocked with empty food cans, boxes, and bottles. She patiently let us help her make bread, cookies and pies again and again. Every Saturday she took us to the library, allowing us to take as many books as we could hold in our arms.

Mom always had time – I don’t remember her ever saying she was too busy to help, to teach, to read with us, to sing, to listen. Every night after dinner we read Bible stories as a family. At bedtime she sang and prayed with each of us in our early childhoods. She taught us about God’s grace, and about being ’servants’.

Mom was very efficient and did everything thoroughly. She had low tolerance for poorly done jobs. As we girls grew older, she taught us to sew, and then let us choose patterns and make our own clothes. On numerous occasions she had to step in and undo my mistakes, patiently undoing mistakes and expertly fixing them. The clothes and gifts she sewed and stitched were masterpieces. She would take hours to fix a little mistake that nobody would have noticed anyway. I have a couple of her simplest pieces of cross-stitching, and they mean so much to me – because she made them for me!

She made one of these for each of us when we were born.

Once I had just finished hanging the laundry on the line outside, and she came out and insisted I redo it. Rehang it all! I thought I had followed the unwritten hang-up-the-laundry rules: I had hung the shirts together, the socks together, the pants together, etc. But that wasn’t good enough for her. Something about the spacing not being right, and folding too much of the clothing over the line, instead of the least amount possible. “Brenda, everything you do… EVERYthing you do, do it the best you can.” I thought she was going overboard, but when I told my older sister about that she said, “Oh yeah… haven’t you ever noticed? When mummy hangs the laundry, it looks sooo nice from the road!” She was serious, too.

I left home for college at age 18. Through college and the years since then, I have realized that she  never ever meddled or vocally disagreed with my decisions as an adult. She and Dad have always supported me. Despite the tight reins while we were growing up, I felt she completely trusted and believed in us as adults.

Yes, as we got older, Mom relaxed. She knew the hardest part was finished, and perhaps she felt she could now reap the fruit of her efforts. She was weak with joy when her first grandson was born, and began to spoil him in true grandmotherly fashion.  In her role as grandmother, she moderated her military approach to homemaking. I really cherished the weekends I could go home and spend time relaxing with her on the front porch at the end of the day.

When I got really into using the Internet, I convinced her to get a computer and try it. Try it she did.  And she fell in love with it! Every night she pored over news sites from all over the world. I loved her take on world issues and was surprised by her insight. She learned to type and started corresponding with me by e-mail. I taught her how to use ICQ and she loved that we could chat live while I was working on the computer and she was reading the news.

I remember a couple days after she died, I was standing at the cash register in Zellers, buying some black tights for the funeral. I have such a strong memory of that moment – how everyone around me seemed so cheery, how life was so bright for everyone else, while I was feeling numb and dazed, still overwhelmed with unbelief.  I couldn’t imagine that life would ever feel normal for me again. But of course God (and time) are great healers.

I’m sad that she never got to meet Mehmet. I know she would have loved him, and he would have loved her. But I am thankful that she died without pain or suffering. (She had a brain hemmorhage and died in her sleep.) I’mc thankful that I had 29 (!) years with her – that she wasn’t taken sooner. I’m thankful that I carry so many great memories and lessons from her. I’m thankful for all the warming  stories so many people told us in the days after their death about how she so quietly and modestly touched their lives. I’m thankful for the promise of eternal life for believers. And I’m thankful that life goes on, that God gives healing and strength, and that our sweet and gracious stepmother Carol has stepped into our lives.

This was our last family picture together with Mom – Thanksgiving weekend, 1999, just a couple weeks before she died:

And this was last month, Thanksiving weekend 10 years later:

So much to be thankful for.

When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality, then the saying that is written will come true: “Death has been swallowed up in victory.” “Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?” (1 Corinthians 15:54-55).