In our small, bright yellow kitchen, you stirred your signature onion, chili powder, ground beef, tomato, kidney bean and macaroni dish on the stove. The delicious aroma wafted my way as I perched on the washing machine a few feet away, dangling my teenaged legs and talking with you.

Every day, you and I were there, Mom, talking about life. I can’t remember a word of a single conversation, but this warm and comforting image is the first thing that comes to mind in my memories of you. Thank you.

I’ve cherished other memories: I overheard you and Dad talking one day while I was home on school vacation. I was surprised to learn how hard you were both working to send me to the private college I had chosen. Thank you for wanting to bless me without calling any attention to the hard-won gift.

You never told me I was a surprise and that you had sold the crib before I came along. When the story came out one evening, years later when I had my own children, you laughed your gentle laugh and said I wasn’t supposed to know. I think you didn’t want me to feel less wanted than Ginny and Terry. Thank you, Mom.

You were good at keeping secrets! In fact, you were good at saying only what was necessary. You never spoke unkindly of anyone. The only things I remember you complaining about were the Maryland soil you couldn’t grow tomatoes in and my failing to set the table when I was called and the day Dad and I were out driving in a bad snowstorm and you were scared for our lives.

In our home, the TV went off when the show we turned it on for was over. I am grateful this is natural for me today. 

There were times Dad had football games on for hours. Remembering your exclamation, “Blessed quietness!” when the TV finally went off still makes me smile. 

It was fun to hear another of your sayings: “It’s a braw, bricht, moonlicht nicht the nicht” (It’s a brilliant bright moonlit night tonight). And I occasionally deserved your half-scolding, half-laughing name for me: “Judith-Wudith.”

I loved hearing you laugh at Dad’s jokes or comment to him on something you were reading in the newspaper. A World War II bride, you married Dad when his ship returned from Europe. You remained true to each other for 52 years. 

You let me make my own decisions, maybe more than you should have. But thank you for trusting me. 

Under your quiet exterior your love inspired countless home-cooked meals and trips to stores, doctors, parks (sometimes camping for weeks), museums and botanical gardens. And always church.

There was never any question that we would go to church and Sunday School and that we kids would go to confirmation classes. We were at church for every service. On Christmas morning, church came before presents! I’m grateful for the heritage of hymns I still sing word for word. But outside of saying grace at meals, we didn’t talk about God at home. 

You didn’t know what to make of it when Ginny and I discovered the joy of full commitment to Christ as adults. Later, you and Dad visited Ed and me and the kids in Kansas just before we flew back to our missionary assignment in the Philippines. I had wept for you, fearing that we were going overseas again to share Jesus’ love when my own mother was not a true believer.

But on the last night of your visit, you too bowed your heart and knee to the Lord in full surrender. You were 80. What a thrill it was to hear you say you sang “Blessed Assurance” as you and Dad drove all 1100 miles home to Maryland.

When I asked my friends to be my bridesmaids, if you weren’t my mother I would have asked you. 

You didn’t want age to be a factor in your life. “Alive or dead,” is how you looked at it. When I had my firstborn at 34, at 75 you traveled to the other side of the world to meet him. 

Mom, the strength of your quiet love forged a stability in me that has held me up all my life. I absorbed some of your insecurities, too, but we both grew stronger. Maybe some of your sweetness rubbed off on Ginny, Terry and me. For years we have talked every week online. You would have relished that. But I’m thankful for the multitude of letters you and I exchanged over the years, and the notes you sent our little Stephen, Elisa and Andrew. 

You loved a song based on Ecclesiastes 3:1-8: “In everything there is a season and a time for every purpose under heaven …” The day came, too soon for me, when it was your time to die. I couldn’t fathom that you were old at 83.

I’m so glad you’ll be waiting for me on those golden streets. You will finally know fully how much I have loved you all these years, your proud and stubborn daughter who never knew how to take your advice. I’m sorry for that, Mom; it was my loss. And still you loved me.

Well, you won’t be cooking, and I won’t be dangling my legs off a heavenly washing machine. But we will be free to talk forever, in perfect joy, about the Way, Truth and Life we found in our Lord Jesus. 

Mom, thank you for your graceful, selfless love, for Dad (you always served him first!) and for us three kids and our children. I have passed on to our kids many of the things I learned from you — treasuring this earth and its flowers and creatures, savoring words, living uprightly.

Thank you for what you said and didn’t say, for living and loving sweetly, faithfully and fiercely. You were a true gentlewoman. On this special day, 70 years since the day you gave birth to me, I thank the Lord for the wise, kind, and gentle friend I had in you.

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If you haven’t discovered life in Christ, don’t hesitate to check it out. Life is too short to miss His love and perfect plan for you. Read About “The Nearness of God” or see everyperson.com for more information. You can also read my story of coming to faith in Christ in: How My Song Began.