Remembering and Being Remembered

Today (the day I’m posting this, not the day I’m writing it) is my mother’s birthday. Wilma Louise was born on July 20^th, 1923. She was a remarkable woman, as anyone who knew her could testify. (And feel free to do so in the comments here, friends.)

I am celebrating her life today by baking oatmeal cookies – my MOM’s oatmeal cookies. Because they are different than anyone else’s somehow. They are hers. And they scream Wilma Louise. I believe my nieces and nephews have said before that one of their favorite memories of their grandmother was the bag of oatmeal cookies that would always be in the freezer when they came over.

I could go on for quite a while about my mother . . . and I believe I have in a previous post somewhere out there. But as I mix up the dough for these cookies to refrigerate overnight, there is one thought that keeps popping up in my brain: what will people do to remember me someday?

Not that I expect my kids to do something special on my birthday each year. Honestly, one reason I started this tradition (oatmeal cookies on Mom’s birthday – strawberry ice cream sodas on Dad’s birthday) was just to give me a good excuse to talk to my kids about the grandparents they never knew. Lord willing, I will live long enough to know my grandchildren, and such a routine won’t be needed.

But since my girls have experienced this idea, there’s a possibility that they may carry on the tradition. And if they keep it as a food tradition, I suspect they will make (or at least eat) caramel popcorn. Which, ironically, is also one of my mother’s recipes (but I don’t make it for her birthday because I make piles and piles of it at Christmas to give away).

Truth is, however, that I don’t know if it would be right to use food to memorialize me. My mother was an amazing cook -- an amazing homemaker all around. However, that’s not my gifting, I’m afraid. I made a home because we needed one and because I loved my people . . . but it wasn’t my passion. As much as I love to eat, I don’t take great joy in the preparation of said consumables.

So, what would scream Gwendolyn Joy to my daughters? I suppose I could ask them. But it’s an interesting thing to speculate on here.

Going to a play. The three of us have done theater together for years and years. We’ve even joked (sometimes not so jokingly) about opening our own theater someday (especially now that we have a son-in-law who can build sets for us). That’s a good possibility.

Reading a book. I not only taught them both to read, but I homeschooled each of them for many years AND read to them in bed every other night (alternating with their dad) for most of their childhoods. Maybe they would read a Narnia book. I read that series through a couple times with each daughter – and given my passion for C.S. Lewis, that might seem appropriate.

But I have to admit here that I’m a bit sobered by the fact that, when it really comes down to it, I have no idea what impact I’ve had on those around me. I can flatter myself by saying books and theater are what they’ll remember most. But it may be something more mundane . . . like my unattractive but comfortable shoes.

Or something more unfortunate . . . like my biting tongue, or my too-high expectations.

I look back on my early mothering years and remember the sweet times of reading in bed. But I also remember the moments when I lost my temper and hurt them. The times when I was so busy with other things that they probably felt like an obstacle to the rest of my life. My heart sinks at the failures.

But you know, my sweet and amazing mother had her failures, too. She wasn’t perfect. And still, on her birthday, I’m not remembering the failings or mourning how they wounded me . . . I’m celebrating her Imago Dei.

I can only pray that I have the same impact on those I love.